The Father
by frodogenic
Summary: Ten years after ROTS, tormenting nightmares of his unborn child drive Darth Vader to extraordinary measures with unexpectedly drastic consequences. Clearly, experience has taught Darth Vader nothing... L/V, the gang, and a few OCs for flavor. COMPLETE!
1. The Nightmare

As much as he denied it to the galaxy—as much as he denied it to himself—the nightmare was proof that Darth Vader still possessed a heart.

It was proof to him, at least. Fiercely unwelcome proof it might be, a haunting ghost that tormented his dark sleep at unexpected intervals, coming when he had not slaved hard enough to completely silence the background whispering of the man he once had been. But to this man, the erstwhile Chosen One of the Jedi and the second most feared being in the galaxy, the validity of nightmares had long since been proven, and he needed no other evidence. Oh, yes. He had a heart still.

In the beginning, when his wounds were raw beneath the rigid black mask and within his mind, he had not known a single night of respite from the nightmares. His master had been pleased with his rapid growth in the dark side, unaware that the fear his new apprentice used to increase his power sprang from the memories of a past master. In the beginning the nightmares had sometimes followed him through the day, even; legendary as his capricious temper was, he was infinitely more controlled and patient now than then.

For now, he had mastered the nightmares almost entirely—a feat he had dreamed of since those first hated visions of his mother. The memory of Obi-Wan's friendship was now completely banished; not for seven years had his old master made an appearance in his nightmares. After him had gone the Jedi he had once thought family. Whenever he now remembered his deeds in the Temple that night, he could no longer recall the faces of those he had killed. And then—Padme.

She was gone now, after years of racking grief and nightmares, waking and trying again to remember why she was not at his side, of watching the senate proceedings and searching the banks of pods for that one precious face. There had been dozens upon dozens of nightmares of his beautiful guardian angel. How many times had he watched in his dreams as his yet-unmutilated self reached that fateful hand out, grasping at her neck with the darkness and crushing it, while he screamed pleas that could not be heard, knowing the outcome could not be changed but driven each time by the desperate hope.? It had been years, but finally sheer agony forced the memory of her away, totally away. He had ordered her name wiped from the galaxy's databanks, erased every memory of her presence, bombarded Naboo from orbit until Varykino and Theed were barren, radiation-poisoned wastelands. And in the end, he had triumphed. It was rare that he thought of her now.

Yes—one by one, the nightmares had subsided to his overpowering will to defeat them.

All but one.

It was that one which had woken him tonight, as it had now for the past several nights. Now in full armor and pacing before the great viewport adorning his private quarters aboard _Epsilon One_, the images of the nightmare still sprang before the dark lord's mind.

He had frequently used new projects to banish troublesome nightmares in the past, and he had hoped that by focusing his energies on _Epsilon One_ as well as his ongoing efforts to root out the nascent Rebellion, this one would also leave him in peace. _Epsilon One_ was the prototype for a new class of Star Destroyer, the first new one since the _Imperials_ entered the Navy six years ago. He did not anticipate that these gargantuan _Super_-class ships would soon replace them—cost alone was prohibitive, especially when one considered the vast leech plaguing the Imperial treasury that only recently had been dubbed the Death Star. Generally Lord Vader did not approve of enormous ships when more compact, efficient, cost-effective models could be made, but the pilot in him had been unable to refuse Sienar's proposal for _Executor_.

She lay out in space ahead of him, still nothing more than bare durasteel framework, discounting a small test patch of hull plating that had been laid down at the destroyer's nose just yesterday. When she was complete she would include thousands of specialized systems and engineering unique to her design, much of which he was personally designing. Between the _Executor_ and her scaled-down prototype _Epsilone One_, and the cursed Rebellion, Lord Vader scarcely had time to sleep, let alone dream. But the more he sought to avoid the nightmare, the more it plagued him.

Even as he reflected on the fact, the images again leapt into his mind, and he very nearly flinched at the renewed sight of a small boy, smiling up at him with arms raised. Every time the dream was the same. He would again find himself at Mustafar, in the moments before Padme—

But those details were the same with many dreams; in the background of this one, he could see a small boy, certainly no more than five years old. And he watched as the child too pleaded silently with him, arms raised up, until his anger latched onto to Padme—and then the child would begin also to gasp for air, clutch at his throat, reaching out desperately towards—

His father. It was their child he saw in these nightmares. Generally it was a boy he saw, but sometimes a girl, and hair and eye color were different each time. Of course he could never know what their little one would have looked like.

"This is the happiest day of my life." How well he remembered those words!

Much had changed, but the instinctive love he had known the moment Padme told him of her pregnancy had not yet been shed, though the child it was directed for had perished ten years ago without ever seeing the light of day—murdered by his own father. It was an altogether different agony from anything else he had ever felt, and if anyone was an expert on pain in this galaxy it was Lord Vader. The child had done nothing, whatever betrayal he might believe its mother guilty of. He was the only innocent Darth Vader would admit to killing.

Generally he thought of their baby as a boy, though he had been sure at the time it would be a girl.

What he would not give for a second chance, to prove how much he had loved his child! Palpatine could have the cursed galaxy, if only it would restore that precious child to him. He called nothing his own that he would not now sacrifice for the son (or perhaps daughter) he had essentially thrown away.

Exhausted, he set his guilt aside once more. This was pointless, a waste of time. The past could never be changed, and it was best that he forget it had even existed. Sleep now being out of the question for the remainder of the night, the dark lord stalked from his private chambers in the direction of his hyperbaric chamber, intent upon making use of these hours. If he could not rest, he would spend the time working on the designs.


	2. The Briefcase

Author's Note: Thank you, reviewers! I am glad there are some of you who are enjoying this story. Updates may be rather sporadic, because I am starting school this semester and have a lot going on gearing up for that, and also because I have an original novel in the works; however, I will try not to leave you hanging!

_One month later…_

Coruscant was as Vader remembered it, though his duties with the fleet had kept him away from the capital for the past two years. It was not a planet that changed much. There were few marks to denote the great upheavals of a decade ago, let alone any minor happenings that may have occurred during his extended absence. The only outward indications of the New Order were the bulk of the Imperial Palace and his own castle, which rose out of the skyline near the Senate Rotunda, in the district of Imperial City. From the rooftop gardens of his castle, Vader could still see the Jedi Temple, long since converted into the headquarters of the Imperial Navy.

The final design schematics for the _Executor_ had been completed last week, and a decisive battle at Kashyyyk had crippled the Rebellion into silence. The unexpected lull in his schedule had coincided neatly with the upcoming tenth Empire Day, and there had really been no choice but to return to Coruscant. His master would have been most irate were he to be absent at so significant a time, even if his every minute had been under demand.

After a harrowing week of the oily, sycophantic company of politicians and untold hours of pompous ceremony, the holiday had finally run its course. His patience being completely threadbare, the dark lord had ordered that any business be cancelled for the next several weeks. His master had not objected. Likely the Emperor understood the maintenance of Lord Vader's sanity was necessary for the survival of his Navy's commanding officers.

This day had been the first in years that he had done no work whatsoever. He had certainly not been idle, spending his hours in meditation or in his dueling salle, but such activities were not work. Although he had felt rather absurd for much of the day, it seemed that he adjusted quickly to vacations. His mood was the best it had been in years. He might even have smiled, had such an exercise not been manifestly unsuited to a Sith lord.

He was none too happy, therefore, when his peaceful, untroubled, solitary rambling through the rooftop gardens was interrupted by his chief assistant.

"My Lord?" the colonel's tremulous voice came from over his shoulder.

He took a moment to remind himself that the man would not have disturbed him had this matter not been of some urgency. "What is it?"

The colonel blanched at the threatening tone, but forged ahead. "My Lord, one of your personal agents has arrived. He claims that you will wish to see him immediately, that he has information of a significant nature to deliver. I attempted to persuade him to await your convenience until morning, at least, but—"

"Which of my agents is it?" he growled irritably.

"He gave his name as Baranne, my lo—"

But Vader had already brushed past the assistant, striding towards the garden entrances as though the path were on fire behind him, ordering the man over his shoulder to see the agent to the private conference room. He was there in two minutes, and in two more the doors hissed open to admit a man of middle age and middle height, distinguished by keen gray eyes and a prominent scar down the left cheekbone.

"Lord Vader," he nodded smoothly. He bowed from the waist, and there was a healthy respect in his gaze, but his professional manner was unburdened by fear. "I apologize for interrupting your solstice, but I am sure you would desire to have this information as quickly as possible."

"You are correct, Agent Baranne." Vader reached out a massive glove to accept the briefcase the agent held out to him.

"I was able to unearth more files, as well as some more physical items," the agent continued. "Some of the items are of a delicate nature, my lord."

"A delicate nature?" Vader pressed.

"I was able to procure a genetic sample," Baranne answered. "It was found at a small clinic in the rural regions, along with some childhood medical documentation. The other items are miscellaneous in nature: a few historical articles, education records, media holos. I also included a security hologram from Kamino that I thought you might be interested in, although it did not strictly fit your stated objectives."

Vader's grip on the briefcase had imperceptibly tightened. "You have done well, Baranne. Continue your work as before."

The agent nodded, bowed a second time, and left the conference room.

The Dark Lord himself made quick time up to his chambers, sealing the entrances to both his rooms and his mind before setting the briefcase reverently on his desk and unlocking it.

Several data chips met his eye, and there was a palm projector containing the holos Baranne had mentioned. But he had eyes only for the vials strapped down to the inner wall of the case. He gently removed one from its secure slot, cradling it in his enormous black palm. They were nothing more than a dozen clear tubes, capped at both ends and filled with a typical blue preservation fluid.

But they were the closest he had come to touching his wife in ten years.

He made one attempt to sleep, but abandoned the enterprise quickly. The nightmare was especially strong tonight. Instead he went through the contents of the data chips. As Baranne had indicated, there was nothing very significant. Aside from the childhood medical records, Padme made only very perfunctory appearances in the other information—a background face in some Senate panorama shot, a name on a list of university graduates, a brief mention in some article. He quickly destroyed all of it.

The last item was the security recording from Kamino.

Two seconds after the recording began to run, he stiffened in his seat, every real muscle left to him clenching tight. For a moment his reaction overrode the breathing regulator, and his right hand flashed to the hilt of his lightsaber almost of its own accord.

_Obi-Wan! _

It was indeed his old master depicted there in the security hologram, meandering along a walkway. He was accompanied by a tall, slim-necked alien, presumably a native Kaminoan—and when his fury had cooled enough for him notice, he saw the banks of cloning tanks filling the interior of a vast chamber.

The recording must date from just before the Clone Wars, when the two of them had been assigned to the protection of a certain senator he would rather not think much more on. He was sure of it. Obi-Wan had certainly not been to Kamino again during the war; they had been together for nearly all of that time. He would not find any information here useful to tracking down his elusive old master.

His temper re-ignited, the target this time being Baranne. What had the agent been thinking, including this recording? It fell entirely outside the task he had given the man. Baranne was supposed to be hunting solely for any remaining evidence of Padme, collecting what he found and bringing it to Vader. He wanted all mention of her gone—he could not bear to think of her, could not stand the thought that he might somehow be reminded of her by a chance surviving hologram.

Obi-Wan, though, was a different matter altogether.

A black rage consumed the dark lord at the mere thought of that man. No insult would suffice, no torment compensate. Kenobi would have had to die a thousand times over to sate his searing desire for revenge! He did not concern himself with tracking down information about Kenobi, unless that information could point him towards the traitor. He could worry about erasing the man's memory after he had seen to the erasing of his life. A pity that he must ultimately be satisfied with killing him only once—when he at last got his _prosthetic_ hands on the Jedi who had robbed him of the real hands, he planned on making the most of that one time. Dear Force, the man had robbed him of his body, of his life, of his dear, dear Padme, of his _child_…

…His child. His fury dissipated before the resurrected image of that small face with its irresolute features. Just lately it had been a boy, with Padme's soft dark curls and his own blue eyes. _Oh, my little one…I never meant you harm…_

The furniture around him had been flipped and splintered when he was again aware of his surroundings; the durasteel walls bore enormous dents. He could hardly have cared less. Such incidents had not been uncommon in the past two years. Walls and chairs could be easily repaired or replaced.

Not so a child. No day passed without his awareness of the gaping wound in his mind where he had once, for a brief time, been able to sense the presence of the baby. After so many years, the torn edges of the bond should have healed; but the pain was never any less sharp. He had merely learned to ignore it through distraction.

His masked gaze fell again on the security hologram, still playing its cycle continuously through the desk holoprojector, alongside the open briefcase with the vials. Bleakly he regarded them in turn. Shreds of his past, both of them; excruciating reminders of what he had suffered. The losses, the years of war, the nights spent bent beneath the whip of his nightmares…all represented in the banks of the Kamino clones, and in the genetic records of his murdered angel. Back and forth, back and forth…

Of a sudden the dark lord leapt forward, leaning rapt over projector and case, hands gripping at the edge of the desk. A second chance…might it be possible after all? Back and forth the insectoid eyes of the mask flashed over the two, connecting, hoping beyond hope—surely such hope could not be!

Yet why not? It was done everywhere by the wealthy, those who had no time or lacked the ability. Money he had—apart from the Force money was all he really had, in fact—and his own genetic information was of course on file, privately—

No—there was no reason why not! No reason at all! And he had several weeks at his disposal; he could easily see to the matter privately. No one need know, so long as he was careful in his dealings. _Palpatine_ need not know.

He pulled the chair back upright with a thought and promptly collapsed in it, overcome with excitement for the first time since he had been a small boy. The prospect was enough to nearly make him giddy. Such a miraculous, redeeming possibility! He could not bear to wait a minute—

Thankfully, ten years had taught him something of patience, or else he would have blasted away from Coruscant in his private fighter and aroused his master's darkest suspicion. He waited until well into the morning before ordering his personal shuttle prepared for immediate departure to Vjun and his private retreat of Bast Castle.


	3. The UnNightmare

Author's Note: Thank you for the warm reception! It may be a while before I can post another update, due to life; but I have every intention of seeing this through ultimately…

It was again raining on Vjun. The permacrete skies and streaked transparisteel brought Kamino strongly to Darth Vader's mind. But then, nearly everything around him reminded him of that planet presently.

As was his habit whenever he discovered himself unemployed, the dark lord stood pensively staring out a panoramic bank of transparisteel, surveying the stormy vista of Vjun's surface from the castle's vantage position atop the cliffs. As a Jedi, Anakin Skywalker had been a thorough failure in the art of meditation; and as a Sith, Darth Vader had fared little better. He had eventually discovered that the observance of broad views could inspire him to a state of deep reflection, which was a tolerable substitute.

When at Bast Castle, his favorite window for such purposes was the viewport in the library. It had an impressive view of the valley and distant ocean, and usually he would watch as a storm rode in from the sea, brooding on its dark majesty. Yet though there was a particularly impressive bank of thunderheads on the approach, seeming to swallow up the sky into its black maw, shot through with lightning, he could not pay it any mind. He was far too impatient to reflect on anything but the matter at hand.

Yesterday morning, his guests had arrived from Kamino, accompanied by all their lab and procedural equipment. They had been sequestered in the underbelly of the castle ever since touching down, running tests on the genetic samples. He had no idea when they would emerge, but it had certainly better be soon, for his patience was rapidly wearing thin. The suspense had only grown sharper and sharper since the idea first came to him two weeks ago—he must know soon whether it would prove workable! They had been there all the past day, all the night, and now it was nearly evening.

He stiffened, beating down his nervous excitement. Patience. The results would be available when they were available and that was that. He was a Sith lord, one with the dark side, and he had no use for such petty surges of pointless emotion. Very, very deliberately, he placed his personal com on an empty desk, went to the computer terminal on the opposite side of the library, and began checking his personal files for any new business that might have arisen since he had last dealt with affairs.

There were several messages from the naval headquarters. It seemed the Rebellion had gotten its breath back, and there were reports of violent incidents in several Outer Rim systems—and, most disturbingly, a full-fledged attack upon two _Imperial_-class destroyers by a group of unidentified Corellian corvettes. Although the destroyers had emerged alive, the majority of the corvettes had escaped, and had inflicted significant damage. It was the boldest move the Rebels had made yet. He could not afford to be absent from his duties for much longer, given the conflict's rising intensity. Many of the chief naval officers felt the Rebellion an insignificant trifle, but Vader did not share their assessment. If the Emperor did not give him leave to act decisively now, while the Rebels' efforts were still limited and sporadic, they might yet have a civil war on their hands—

Across the room, his personal com buzzed sharply. His pretense of industrious indifference died a quick death, as he rushed from the terminal to the desk. "Lord Vader," he rumbled into the mouthpiece.

One of his assistants answered promptly. "My lord, the chief technician had informed me that preliminary testing is complete. He would like to speak with you at your convenience."

"Escort him to the library immediately." Quickly Vader reached out with his mind, finding and deactivating the security systems, and raising a shield around the library to ensure against eavesdropping. Then he seated himself at the head of the library conference table and waited.

It seemed like an eternity before the doors opened to admit a tall, slender alien, with a bulbous head set on a long stalk of a neck. By the wrinkling and discoloration of his pale skin, Vader judged the being to be well advanced in age for its race.

"Good evening, Lord Vader," the Kaminoan nodded. Vader rose to greet him with a nod. "I am Doctor We K'do. I understand you have need of my area of expertise."

"That will depend, Doctor, on whether this endeavor has the possibility of success."

"I have personally seen to the examination of the genetic specimens you provided. All of the materials were in excellent condition. Rest assured, my lord; if you decide to pursue this, I have every reason to expect an unqualified success."

The dark lord's first instinct was to slump in the nearest chair with relief, and his second to leap for joy. Fortunately he reminded himself immediately that he was a Sith lord, and pushed emotions aside with all the strength of the darkness. "Will you be able to conduct the procedure here on Vjun?" he asked.

"I took the liberty of bringing all the necessary equipment from Kamino. So long as you can provide an appropriate location for us to assemble, I think we could begin by tomorrow." The doctor paused for a moment, but soon resumed. "In the interests of security, it is possible to increase the growth rate, thereby reducing the amount of time our presence here must be kept secret."

The dark lord shook his head immediately. "No; there will be no genetic tampering." He wanted the procedure to be as natural as possible, given the circumstances. "You have my permission to begin work. How much space will be required?"

"I believe if you could provide us with two rooms of a size with the laboratory, we would have sufficient space for the equipment; and of course, we will require standard medical facilities and living quarters…."

Vader did not waste a moment. Within two hours, the equipment the Kaminoans had brought was assembled in the topmost level of the castle, across the hall from his personal medical bay, behind a dozen layers of heavy security. By midnight, the work was begun.

"Finally," Owen Lars sighed, settling down at the kitchen table. "I thought that boy would never settle down."

"He was quite energetic today, wasn't he?" Beru agreed, passing a cup of caf across to him.

Own shook his head and took a swallow. "It's going to take me a month to get that garage wall repaired. Not to mention the speeder."

"He didn't mean any harm," Beru defended. "And it's only a few dents in the landspeeder. He was just excited that you let him drive."

"Yeah, well, remind me not to let him pull into the garage next time." Owen's gruff tone, though, was undermined by the amused glint in his eyes. "At least he's finally asleep."

No sooner had the words left his mouth than the rapid patter of footsteps was heard approaching, and in another moment a small, blond-headed boy had appeared in the kitchen entrance. He was rather shamefaced as he met Owen's exasperated stare with two very confused blue eyes.

"Uncle Owen?" he asked softly.

"Luke, why aren't you in bed?" Owen sighed. "It's well past time, and we have to be up early tomorrow for that trip in to Mos Eisley."

"I had a dream," Luke persisted. "It woke me up."

"Did it frighten you?" Beru cut in.

His ten-year-old brow furrowed in a very adult manner. "I don't know."

"How can you not know?" Owen demanded irritably. Beru shot him a covert glare as she reached her arms out.

"Come here and tell me about it." It was a mark of the boy's unease that he settled himself on her lap; usually he refused such little-kid behaviors, particularly since his birthday.

"There was a man in it, mostly," Luke said softly. "At least I think he was a man. He had some sort of helmet on so I couldn't tell for sure." He paused thoughtfully. "It didn't look very nice."

"And did the man frighten you?"

Luke frowned again. "I think he wanted to scare me," he decided. "He was tall and all covered in black, but he—he just sort of felt warm, so I wasn't really scared, I don't think…"

Beru's eyes flashed to Owen's in sharp, sudden fear, and she wrapped her arms more tightly around her nephew.

"…And what was really weird was I think I saw a baby, too. Why would I dream about a baby?" Luke was staring up at her with rampant consternation in his young face.

"It's probably nothing, Luke," his aunt immediately reassured him. "Let's go back up to bed." She nodded at Owen as she left with Luke's hand in hers, pointing to their comm. Unit with her eyes.

Owen sighed with distaste, but went. No matter how much he disliked Obi-Wan Kenobi, the man would have a better understanding of what this disturbing incident might mean than either of them could.


	4. Vader's Project

Author's Note: I'm so excited by the positive reviews! Please feel free to comment on any problems you notice, as well; I'm not all that well versed in the EU, so if any of you see some conflicts I'd be grateful if you would point them out. Now, without further ado, I present the next installment…

_Eight months later…_

The Senate had always been a stressful workplace, for as long as Bail Organa had been serving in it—nearly fifteen years now. He groaned and leaned back in his office chair, massaging his temple. Had it only been that long? Recently it had seemed as though he didn't even exist outside the confines of the Senate Rotunda.

Affairs had been especially tricky since the rise of the Empire. The task of representing Alderaan safely had begun to feel as though he was cartwheeling across a wire strung between two of Coruscant's gigantic starscrapers. With the mounting clashes between the Rebellion and the Imperial Navy, Organa had been appointed chairman of the committee "supervising" the Navy's handling of the situation; and of course he had an even more personal role in those conflicts behind the scenes, which did not ease his workload any.

And just in case _that_ wasn't enough to frazzle every cell in his brain, his daughter had been hopelessly plagued by disconcerting dreams and vivid nightmares for the past several months. No doctor could help her, whether droid, human, or alien; no medication could ensure her safe sleep. Not even heavy tranquilizers could prevent her growing insomnia. Most of the time, the dream was the same—his daughter would whisper to him a description of a tall, masked figure all in black, terrifying and soothing at the same time to her, and often added that she had seen a baby.

He was so close to contacting Kenobi, it frightened him. He dared not risk it; yet how else was he to help Leia?

He was almost sure it was Vader the little girl saw in her dreams; and as for the baby, the only explanation that made sense was that she retained some subconscious memory of her twin brother. Neither of these things put him at ease. Not a day went by that he did not fear for Leia's safety.

These days especially he was tightly strung; his duties as chairman of the supervisory committee brought him into almost daily contact with none other than Lord Vader himself. Usually it was through the Holonet, at a distance of many lightyears—but even that much was enough to give him nervous fits, and he could only hope the dark lord did not pick up his irrational emotional state. At galactic distances, he felt sure his thoughts were intact from the man.

But he was not nearly so confident when it came to a personal, face-to-mask conversation with the Emperor's right hand. And this morning his assistant had informed him that Vader had requested to meet with him following midday in his capacity as committee chairman.

He could not imagine why—they were not due for another meeting with Navy Command until next week. And besides that, Vader wasn't even supposed to be _on_ Coruscant! The last he had heard, the dark lord had been engaged at the front, spearheading the efforts against the Rebellion. Only a day ago they had received word of an Imperial victory at Munto Codru, where Lord Vader had been in command.

Did the Sith suspect him after all? Bail felt shivers run quietly down his spine at the thought. He couldn't. Force, he had to watch out for Leia!

Yet there was no way he could avoid this summons. If he failed to appear, or made excuses, he would certainly arouse suspicion. So at thirteen hundred hours, his speeder arrived at the Naval Command Center.

And, upon arrival, he was immediately redirected to the dark lord's castle and there shown to a Spartan foyer. He had plenty of time in which to wonder about the strange turn of events. Vader invariably dealt with Fleet business from the headquarters. If Bail could say nothing else good about him, it was that the man knew how to keep things in their place; all their previous such meetings had been held in the same briefing room at the NCC, attended by a selection of admirals and the rest of the committee board.

Furthermore, Vader was not one to change a meeting's location without notifying the other attendees. Neither did he tend to make others wait beyond the time set for said meeting; yet Bail was left to twiddle his thumbs in the foyer for a good half hour before the doors hissed open to admit the Empire's second in command.

"Senator Organa," the dark lord rumbled. Bail noticed that he seemed hurried—extremely out of character. Darth Vader did not hurry. He was expedient, but _never _rushed. "I regret that it will be impossible to conduct this briefing as is customary. I have had all new information compiled for the committee"—he set a data chip firmly in the senator's tentatively outstretched hand—"and given instructions to Admiral Randon to speak with the senators tomorrow. I myself am leaving system on urgent business no later than tonight." And with that, he continued on past Bail towards the opposite door.

Just before leaving, though, he paused and turned back. "I am told the princess is unwell."

The senator only barely managed to keep his jaw from dropping clear to the ground levels of Coruscant. "She is somewhat troubled by nightmares, nothing more," he finally responded.

Vader was silent for just a moment. Then, with a very perfunctory, "Accept my wishes for her quick recovery," he strode swiftly away, cape flagging behind him.

It occurred more than once to the dark lord that his behavior must have struck Organa as decidedly unusual; but he was far too preoccupied to care. His afternoon was taken up with rushing around Imperial City, in a whirlwind of meetings with senators and admirals, as he fought to clear himself of business in time to depart the capital system that day.

So turbulent was Vader's state of mind, it did not even occur to him to wonder why his master had not been more suspicious when he announced that he would be leaving for Vjun on urgent business. Palpatine had merely nodded, and had very nearly shooed him out the door like some hovering mother; apparently both of them were too preoccupied to give much thought to anything else. He was sure his master's apathy towards his activities would not last long; probably he should take a couple of Star Destroyers and bombard a few planets under the pretense of rooting out Rebel bases, to cover himself…

But he could not make the detailed plans necessary now. His every thought was focused on getting to Vjun as soon as possible—and on what would await him there.

His chief assistant on Bast Castle had contacted him early that morning—the first word he had had from Vjun since leaving eight months. It should not yet be time for him to return, but for some reason K'do must have decided that affairs could not wait any longer. The assistant had said they would hold for five days at the doctor's orders before proceeding; if he left by midnight he should reach Vjun in time. There had been no further explanation.

Vader was able to board his shuttle with an hour to spare; and it was only once he was in hyperspace that he began to worry. Had something gone wrong after all? K'do had assured him before he left that everything was stable and proceeding beautifully; there had been absolutely no indication that anything was faulty. The technicians had run careful scans and analyses, more than a dozen of them daily, to ensure that no development escaped scrutiny. Why was it necessary that the time be cut short?

He tried to calm his mind through meditation, and failed even more spectacularly than was typical of him. Even staring out the viewport of the cockpit at the violent beauty of hyperspace could not bring him any vestige of peace. Eventually he retreated to his cabin and busied himself with dismantling and reassembling a maintenance droid, modifying it as ideas came to him; but one could not tinker with droids for four days nonstop. By the last day of the trip, he had locked himself in his hyperbaric chamber and was brooding darkly, half-mad with impatience and worry and anxiety. The most intense battle he had ever flown in had not inspired half as much nervous energy as this interminable suspense!

The dark lord practically exploded from the shuttle when it finally touched down at Bast Castle. He scarce saw anything as he marched swiftly up to the topmost level where he had set the Kaminoans to their work—only his destination.

K'do met him outside the medical ward. "Lord Vader," he nodded. "I'm glad you were able to make good time. I don't believe we have three hours to spare." His voice took on a note of bewilderment at the last.

"Why have affairs suddenly become so rushed?" the dark lord rumbled dangerously. "Have complications arisen?"

"They have indeed, my lord—but I assure you, not of a dangerous nature. It's not so much a lack of time as it is a lack of _room_."

Vader frowned beneath the mask, crossing his arms. "A lack of room?"

K'do spread his hands out in a bewildered gesture. "I believe you will soon understand the issue at hand, my lord," was all he answered. "If you will follow me in, we will proceed."

His heart, one of the few fully natural organs left in his body, was pounding furiously as he entered the medical ward behind the doctor. In the center of the third room, a small white tank stood, attached to dozens of cords and monitors, surrounded by Kaminoan technicians running diagnostics and checking readouts.

"We are prepared to proceed?" K'do asked them briskly.

A technician nodded, handing K'do a flimsy printout. "All vital signs are reading perfectly, and the preliminary systems preparations have been completed. Shall we begin?"

K'do nodded. With a few commands the tank was gently taken from its place and moved to a softer room, painted in pastel blue. The technicians locked in into a new frame and began manning their consoles. Slowly the tank was tilted down on its side, and the top was connected to a vinyl-padded table with raised edges and a gentle downward slant. K'do gestured sharply some more and issued orders in Kaminoan as two women in lab coats took up position at the table. There was a pause as everyone made ready; K'do glanced back at Vader, who stood towards the back of the room. The doctor beckoned him closer with the first smile the dark lord had seen from him. "You will be able to see better from here," he informed him. Then he nodded to the technicians. "Begin."

Vader watched raptly as the plate sealing the tank at the top retracted, and a tube was extended outward. The women at the table edged a bit closer to its end as it began to pulse slowly, rhythmically—

The dark lord jerked as a small, primitive stab of fear shot through the Force. That had not come from him—which meant it must have been—

One of the women called something excitedly, and then both of them were huddled around the tank so tightly he could not see. Grins burst onto the technicians' faces. K'do was receiving status reports in Kaminoan, and the room was so bustling with activity Vader couldn't get a sense of what was going on—

After a few minutes, one of the women broke away from the table and came slowly towards with a radiant smile. "Here you are, my lord," she said softly, extending her arms.

There, cradled gently in blankets and already swabbed clean, a tiny infant lay whimpering quietly.

"It's a girl, my lord," K'do said from beside him. Slowly, disbelieving, Vader finally took the child from the nurse.

He could not believe how perfect she was—how beautiful! She was nearly nothing in his arms, hardly any weight at all; he could cradle almost all of her in one hand. Hesitantly, he reached out through the Force and touched his daughter's mind for the first time.

And though it was painful, he smiled broadly beneath the mask. Such a bright little star in the Force she was already! And precocious—he could feel her subconscious recognition of the touch, and the baby even reached back to him reflexively.

For now, the rest of the universe didn't even exist. He felt as though he was holding all of it right here in his arms.

What should he name her? He thought briefly of naming her for her mother—

"My lord?" K'do was tapping him on the shoulder. "My lord, I regret to disrupt you, but I'm afraid we're only half done."

Of course—they would need to take his daughter, run the post-birth tests and scans to make sure she was in perfect health…

And then his heart all but stopped entirely as the other nurse approached him again from the table, a second bundle held in her arms. The shock quite nearly made him drop the baby he was already carrying. "Doctor…"

K'do gave him another broad smile. "It's _two_ girls, my lord," he said wryly.


	5. Dreams and Encounters

Author's Note: My apologies for the delay in getting another update posted. I've been pretty busy with classes starting and packing for an extended trip, plus my Internet access is very limited at present…but I have not been an idle writer! Here's a nice long update for you. I wasn't too sure about parts of this "chapter," so please be honest and tell me if you think it needs improving. I'm glad many of you are enjoying this story so far! Again, a disclaimer: I am not regarding the EU much, so some of the things I write may not line up with it (dates and ages particularly). Hope you enjoy it despite.

Several hours had passed since the whirling activity and emotional maelstrom of the twins' birth, but now the doctors, nurses, and techs had ceased their fussing and examining, leaving Vader to acquaint himself with his newborn children.

His little girls lay peacefully asleep now, both laid in the same crib as a spare had not been brought. The dark lord hovered above them, as silent as it was possible for him to be. Initially he had feared the noise of the respirator would wake them, but K'do assured him the twins would be very used to it, saying that as per standard procedure recordings of his voice had been played several hours a day around the artificial womb. And for the past hour, neither of them had stirred under his watchful gaze.

They seemed so very small. K'do had agreed that they were tinier than most newborns, but it did not seem to worry the doctor. Twins were often born early, and generally weighed less. He seemed much more concerned with the fact that there even _were_ twins.

Apparently, it should have been completely impossible for another child to result from the procedure the Kaminoans had used; or at least, impossible that another set of vital signs should go unnoticed for so long. K'do had told him that although they had been a little suspicious of a few of the readings they collected, it was not until they did a direct visual scan of the tank that the technicians realized a second infant was present. Understandably, the doctor had been especially worried about the newcomer when she made her entrance, and had whisked her off for more detailed examination than the first baby had undergone.

But everything seemed to have come out all right, in spite of the ancient Murphy's Law, and now he had his children to himself.

He still could not think what to name them. He didn't feel it would be fair to call one of them Padme now; there was a special significance in that name to him, and he did not want any sort of favoritism between his daughters. He supposed he could have called the other Shmi; but somehow his mother's name didn't seem to fit either of them.

_Leia?_ Instantly his mind recoiled, a fresh ache arising at the memory of sitting on the veranda with his wife, mulling over possible names for their baby. They had both liked Leia, about the only female name they agreed on—but that name was reserved for his un-firstborn.

No. It would not be Leia.

He sighed, abandoning the question of names for now, and let himself simply enjoy the twins' presence. Their glows were hazy and warm now in the Force, muddled by sleep, utterly untroubled by dreams. Unlike their haunted father.

Not for the first time in the last eight months, sharp doubt surged up in him. He was not fit to be any child's father, not after causing the death of his mother, wife, and child! What kind of blind, arrogant fool was he to think he could suddenly manage as a parent now? To what horror had he doomed these little ones?

He very nearly laughed at himself after the momentary panic receded. A Sith Lord, nearly seven feet tall, armed with the Force and master of the lightsaber, who had endured the loss of every limb he possessed and survived massive burning—and he was afraid of two infant girls not even a day old! Oh, but he did not deserve these beautiful little ones, not in the slightest, no more than he had deserved their mother. A slave boy and a queen…he should have known better than to think something so preposterous could end happily. The universe did not work that way, as Sidious had aptly shown him. She had been far too good for him, too good for the galaxy, an angel queen…and already he felt sure these two little princesses would take after their mother.

Princesses?

_What about Sara?_ He mulled the name around a little. Yes…yes. Sara. It was a good name. Gently he caressed the mind of the older child. Sara. There was something so powerful in giving her a name! All of a sudden, she seemed twice as precious as before. _Hello, Sara_…

Once he had one name chosen, the second came quickly. Her face was a dim memory—but still he chose to remember her, unlike most of the Jedi he had known. She had been an apprentice, a bit younger than he, and they had followed their masters to some dispute settlement or other in the Outer Rim when he had been fourteen. He had long since forgotten what the conflict had entailed. Everything else had paled when Sandra was killed by a mistaken assassin during their stay. He still remembered watching his second Jedi cremation.

His second daughter would be Sandra. Sara and Sandra. He smiled beneath the mask and reached a tentative hand out to touch them.

_Elsewhere in the galaxy…_

Most children who had spent their entire lives in one place would not take well to being uprooted in the blink of an eye, going to bed in their room and almost literally waking up on the opposite side of the galaxy. Most children would have shrieked, fled crying through their new surroundings, and would definitely not have been happy to find themselves in the sole company of a virtual stranger.

Obi-Wan Kenobi was profoundly grateful that Luke Skywalker was not most children. He might have run around the ship shrieking, but every sound had been an expression of pure delight. Young Luke had been totally caught up in the exhilaration of going on his very first space venture (or at least, he thought it was his first).

The erstwhile Jedi Master had not shared the lad's excitement, unless being sick to your stomach with worry counted as the same thing. The nausea had eased a little over the last several months, but not much. Especially not in the face of Luke's continued dreams.

Upon receiving Owen's call and hearing what alarming description the boy had given of his dreams, Obi-Wan had practically melted the sand into glass on his rapid transit to the homestead. He had gone straight up to Luke's room with both Larses in tow and carefully examined the boy's memory of the dream.

It had really been more of a vision.

Most terrifying was the crystalline image of his masked and robed former apprentice carrying an infant. He still didn't know how he had managed to keep from bursting with apprehension as he waited for the call to Bail Organa to be put through. The signal refused to reach the Aldera Palace, but thankfully Elle had come to the rescue.

Padme's former handmaiden had been perhaps the most resourceful one she ever chose, and she had followed the trail to Polis Massa's medical records. She had known of her mistress' pregnancy, and upon learning of his involvement had demanded Obi-Wan allow her to stay on Alderaan and keep a sharp eye on the little princess. Likely he could not have stopped her; but he was mightily grateful for her watchful presence now. She had reassured him that Leia was fine—even, at his insistence, made a covert trip to the palace to make absolutely sure.

Events had Alderaan had given him no alarm for the past eight months. But scarcely a night went by now that Luke did not dream that same image.

Who else could that baby be but one of the twins? The Jedi was a firm believer in Force visions, particularly those having to do with Anakin. The best he could do for Leia was have Elle keep a razor watch on her; but Luke was not so visible to the galaxy. Few people would notice the disappearance of one reclusive moisture-farming family; terrified that Luke's dream might signify the impending arrival of his mechanized former apprentice, Obi-Wan had not wasted a breath.

They had left the same night, in the landspeeder and a third-hand shuttle. Luke had been carefully moved onto the shuttle in his sleep; Obi-Wan had feared the boy's emotional reaction to events might be noticed, and such a reaction would be far less difficult for the Sith to trace if he was safely in hyperspace.

As it happened, Luke's distress had been minimal, especially once Obi-Wan had arranged a com connection with his uncle and aunt. Owen and Beru were now safely on Krytoa, a world rather similar to Tatooine in regions; he and Luke had been jumping constantly from system to system, changing ships at every stop, until he was beginning to feel sure he had created a sufficiently convoluted trail. Neither had there been any reports of searches.

Still, he did not dare return Luke to his family. And he did not think it at all wise to take the boy to Bail Organa, nor to his Aunt Sola on Naboo.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair in the cockpit, surveying the suspended map of the galaxy despairingly. None of these systems seemed safe enough to him now. Yet he could not very well give the child a proper upbringing aboard a series of ships, constantly hopping about the galaxy like a gigantic Neimoidian frog. They would have to find somewhere to settle themselves. Not Tatooine, not Naboo, not Alderaan or Krytoa, ABSOLUTELY not Coruscant or anything in the Inner Rim—Force, the Unknown Regions were looking better every minute—

Obi-Wan abruptly jerked upright in his seat as an intense wave of fright and denial and general distress exploded through the Force. It was so overwhelming he could only barely identify it as being Luke. He staggered from his seat and got as far as the passage before a second blast of emotion all but knocked him unconscious. His ears rang so badly he almost could not hear the wails from down the corridor, and the pounding of feet.

He recovered in time to catch Luke as the boy barreled into him. The child was sobbing so hard he could barely breathe, and his eyes darted all around, without seeing Obi-Wan.

"Luke!" The boy made as though he would keep running; Obi-Wan grabbed his shoulders and tried to shake him out of his daze. He had to take the boy's chin and force him to meet his eyes. "Hush," he soothed. "Hush, it's all right."

His sobbing grew quieter, but Luke was still shaking all over. Obi-Wan pulled his young charge against his chest, rubbing his back until his hysteria died.

"Better?" He leaned Luke away from him.

The boy nodded, taking a deep, shaky breath.

"Was it the dream again?" Usually his recurring dream did not alarm Luke (which in itself was enough to terrify Obi-Wan).

"Uh-uh," Luke answered. "Not the same one." He shivered again violently. "This was a new one."

"It frightened you."

He could only nod, blue eyes wide.

"What was this one about?" Obi-Wan pressed.

"It was the same man again," Luke whispered. "The one with the black mask. And I know there was a fire or something, and…" He trailed off, swallowing, unable to voice what he had seen. In the end he whimpered, "Just look, please just look this time."

"All right," Obi-Wan agreed slowly. Once Luke had learned the Jedi could probe his mind and see his dreams, he was always wanting Obi-Wan to just do that rather than make him describe his dreams. Usually Obi-Wan didn't comply, feeling it was valuable practice for the boy; but Luke's distress was so great this time he had not the heart to put him through anything more. Carefully he reached into Luke's memories with the Force.

There was indeed a fire involved, a blazing bonfire filling Luke's mind, so hot it was mostly blue. An unholy medley of screams erupted, so intense and lifelike Obi-Wan was at a loss for how so innocent a child could have dreamed them. Peering around, he could indeed see Vader's ambiguous image, and recoiled as he realized that one of those screams came from him—a raw, continuous shriek of fury and anguish. But why?

Skeletal images flashed in the background, such as a child would surely find frightening; but he did not think this enough to give Luke a fit of hysterics—

Then he saw the tiny form in the midst of the flames and heartrending shrieks, slowly being blackened and consumed by the fire; yet still recognizable as the baby of Luke's previous dreams.

He retreated from the boy's throbbing mind, horror flooding through him, and his arms tightened instinctively around Luke. Too much like Mustafar—far too much like Mustafar for a child to see! Force, it was no wonder the boy had been hysterical at such an awful sight!

It was some time before he could consider what such a horrible nightmare could signify. When he did, his first fear was that something had happened to Leia. He had received a brief note from Elle just an hour earlier, and she had assured him of the princess' continued safety. Could something have gone so wrong so suddenly?

But further consideration of the dream calmed some of his apprehension. It hardly took a Jedi Master to deduce that the nightmare anticipated death; the skeletons, the freakish screams…the fire. Surely he would sense it if Leia were to die. Luke, of course, was hanging on to him like his life depended on it.

Almost absently, he brushed against Luke's mind. The boy's initial terror was gone, but he had been well and truly traumatized. Likely there would be no more sleeping for him tonight.

At least, not alone. He might as well bite the bullet and take the child straight to his own bunk.

Even snuggled against Obi-Wan, his mind safely shielded against further nightmares, Luke was still awake hours later.

"Obi-Wan?" he finally whispered.

"What is it?"

"Where'd Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru go?" He sounded so forlorn Obi-Wan didn't have the heart to be annoyed about having a conversation at so ungodly an hour. It seemed homesickness had finally caught up.

"They're safe, Luke. They're not on Tatooine anymore."

"Where are they?"

Obi-Wan sighed. "I can't tell you, Luke. The less people who know, the safer your aunt and uncle will be."

"Does that mean I can't see them?"

"No, we can't go see them. Not for a while, anyway."

"So are we just going to keep flying?"

"Well, I was looking for someplace we could stop. I think we've done enough flying."

"The bad people aren't going to find us now?"

Obi-Wan smiled a little, and reached around to hug the boy reassuringly. "No, I don't think they will."

_About a week later…_

Definitely this had not been one of his better days. Coronet, as much as he liked its liveliness, had its dark sides. And he'd found an awful lot of them today. Krethin' slavers, he was always dodging them. Corellia was just far enough from Coruscant that Imperial favoritism towards humans didn't matter. Of course, given his general lifestyle, if he were on Coruscant he'd be wandering along with the rest of the local scum and probably there'd be slavers after him anyway. Just here on Corellia they didn't keep any secrets about it.

But anyhow slavers were old news, practically a staple of life. Like stealing was. Krethin' sith, he didn't have much choice about it. He'd starve otherwise. Course it wasn't like he had many moral objections to it either. He smirked a bit despite his black mood. Nah. When you grew up running the streets of Coronet, you didn't get much in the way of ethics. He did pretty much anything he cared to, as long as he figured he could get away with it.

Today hadn't been a day for luck, though. Krethin' CorSec must have had a holocam spy tailing him to catch him as often as they had today! One of the vendors he'd tried to snatch nerf sausages from had even turned out to be a CorSec covert officer! How unlucky could a kid possibly get? Hadn't stopped at CorSec and slavers, either. Half the gangs in Coronet had figured him for an interloper or some other underworlder's spy. He wasn't sure, but he thought his eyebrows were still smoking from the last encounter. Nearly run over three times to boot, plus somehow he'd got on the wrong side of a Wookiee.

The fourteen-year-old massaged his arm with a scowl. Sith, but he _hated_ Wookiees.

It was getting on dark out in the city, at least as dark as it ever got. Given the kind of day he'd had, he preferred to stay safely within the confines of somewhere CorSec kept a good eye on, but where there were still enough nooks for a kid to hide out in for the night.

Obviously, the Strip would be that place.

On the west side of Coronet, there was a long avenue of ship hangars where most of the incoming traffic docked. Sure, there was plenty of funny business out on the Strip, but generally it was of a more covert nature. That was to say, the riffraff didn't pull out blasters and start shooting at someone they didn't like the looks of, mostly cause they knew they'd be caught on holocam, plus CorSec ran biosensors and gene-readers all through the Strip. If you pulled something that obvious, your genetic data had a good chance of being recorded and they'd hunt you down at lightspeed. Nobody'd bother him on the Strip. And he knew for a fact that Hangar 1138 had some good hiding holes. Aside from that, it was sorta run-down and ships didn't tend to pick it for a landing spot. Should be empty.

The public city lifts got him there quickly. The back way in was still good; either the hangar's owner didn't know it existed, or he didn't much care. Probably didn't care. And like he'd predicted, the bay's expanse was ship-free. There was a crewmen's bunkroom on the far side of the hangar; he could kick out the door or the window and sack out there, out of the holocams' sightlines.

But although he made it into the bunkroom, and promptly dropped off to an exhausted sleep, his scant luck did not hold. He couldn't have been asleep two hours before he was awakened by the throbbing drone of ship engines and the strobe of landing lights.

"Kreth!" He exploded out of the bed—a painful incident, as he had forgotten he was on the top of a three-tiered bunk. His head smacked something harder than it on the way down, and he was so dazed by the blow that when he finally began to stumble out towards his back exit, the shuttle's landing ramp was already deploying as the shutdown cycle ran. He broke into a shaky run, but before he could reach the shadows a figure appeared on the landing ramp, and somehow or other the hangar floodlights switched on.

"Hello there?" the arrival shouted at him. "Hello?"

The smart thing to do would have been to run for the door, and any other time that's exactly what he would have done. He never afterwards could discover what made him stop and turn around instead; but whatever the reason, he found himself facing a man of medium height, with graying brownish-red hair, garbed in an old brown cloak and a gray jumpsuit.

"Yeah?" His every nerve was on edge, but he did his best to retain his customary insolence.

The man took a closer look at him. "I'm supposing you do not own this hangar."

He hated nothing more than being called a kid. So maybe the guy hadn't said it outright, but it was implied! The fact that he really _didn't_ own the hangar was entirely irrelevant—it was the _principle_ of the matter, even though he wasn't generally much on principles—

"Nah, I don't," he heard himself answering with an uncharacteristic degree of civility. Sith, what was wrong with him?

"Well, perhaps you can help us regardless," the man continued optimistically, after an extremely long pause full of staring. He had an odd accent—all clipped and tight-like, kinda like the Diktat's accent whenever he was on the public holo channels giving a speech. "Myself and one companion are intended a prolonged stay here on Corellia. I receive the impression you would know of locations where we would be able to reside anonymously."

The young street rat blinked, trying to translate the meaning. "You don't want CorSec findin' you?"

"Corellian Security?"

"Yeah—CorSec."

"Not so much them as the Imperial Navy," the other amended. "They are not yet aware of us, and I prefer to maintain that state."

He perked up. What a prime opportunity! "It ain't easy keepin' a low profile here in Coronet, old man."

"Yes, I'm aware there will be costs involved," the other said smoothly. Sheesh, the guy didn't try to haggle out of it at all! What a loser. "This is my offer; if you can find us a suitable residence, you will be paid the equivalent of two months of rent, not to exceed five thousand credits." He leaned back a little. "How does that sound?"

Actually, as crazy as this guy had to be to trust him so much, it sounded pretty darned good. Way too good. "What's the catch?" he demanded irritably.

"No catch, as you put it. I only desire you to find us a quiet, covert home where we can easily go unnoticed, without there being excessive danger. If you find us a place to fit this description, and if I decide to accept it, I will pay you whatever is owed as per our agreement. In fact, I will pay you a thousand upfront simply for taking on the job." He raised his eyebrows, held out his hand. "Do we have an accord?"

Warily, the youngster took the man's offered hand, and winced as the other's grip tightened on his slack hand. "When you shake a hand, you should mean it, son." The man's eyes were stern, but his mood quickly lightened. "Now; what might your name be?"

A little of the young man's rebelliousness returned to him. "You first," he demanded, grabbing his hand away the better to point his finger at the man. "And don't you lie to me." _Wow. That sounded pathetic_, he realized belatedly. _Real intelligent. Like I'd know if he gave me an alias._

The man meshed his fingers together in front of him, considering.

"Your real name or no deal," the boy pressed fiercely, deciding he might as well look consistently ridiculous.

"Very well." He took a deep breath. "I am Obi-Wan Kenobi. But I prefer to be called Ben. And what is your name?"

"Han Solo."

"I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Han—"

Kenobi cut off sharply and turned his head back towards the ship, as though he'd heard something Han hadn't. Strain as he would, Han couldn't determine anything amiss; but after a few moments, he caught the patter of footsteps, and Kenobi's companion emerged from the shuttle.

_A kid? _What had he gotten himself into?

"Obi-Wan, who's that?" The kid sure was pretty short, maybe looked about eight; but Han thought he seemed older than that. "D'ya know him?"

Kenobi gestured the kid closer, held a hand out toward Han. "This is Han Solo. Master Solo, this is my companion, Luke."

"Heya, kid," Han said dubiously, sorta waving at the kid and nodding.

They set out of the hangar onto the streets in search of a less-than-noticeable cantina with edible fare, at Kenobi's insistence. Han's opinion of the kid quickly shot up a few notches as they went. He might be short, but he sure as the nine hells wasn't stupid. Those bright blue eyes didn't miss anything that went on around him, yet he managed to avoid looking like a tourist. Wasn't a slouch on his feet either.

Actually, neither of them was making it hard for him to take them through Coronet unnoticed. They moved along snappily, keeping to the shadows, and refrained from gawking at the sights. Not that there were many exceptional sights in these parts of the city, unless you had the tastes of a Hutt.

Han was pleasantly surprised when he managed to smuggle the two of them clear across Coronet, without incident, to an underground cantina he remembered from a chase last year. Finally—a break in his luck! Maybe he'd keep these two around; they seemed to be having a good effect.

Kenobi surveyed the dismal exterior of the cantina for a moment before shooting a glance at Han. "It seems safe enough," he muttered.

"I'm not a little kid," Luke grumbled darkly. And he glared at Han so convincingly that the Corellian found himself nearly agreeing.

"Well, maybe ya ain't, kid," Han shrugged, "but some places of Corellia can get pretty nasty. Nasty enough some adults wouldn't want to be runnin' around."

Luke met him with a regal glower. "You're not that much older than me. And it isn't any nastier than—"

"Enough," Kenobi said shortly. Luke was immediately contrite. "Let's go in and get something to eat. You too, Han. Everything is on me this time."

Han was beginning to suspect his circumstances had taken a definite turn for the better.

_Two years later…_

It was three in the morning. All the mountains outside Leia's window were nothing but great black shapes, and above them all the stars of the galaxies pinpricked the night, undimmed by bright city lights (night lights were prohibited in Aldera, except for street glowstrips). It was a beautiful sight.

But it was not one she should have been seeing, not so late. Or early, if you wanted to look at it that way. _Beliefs depend on our points of view_, she chanted to herself. _Points of view, points of view…_ That was her Galactic Politics professor's favorite mantra; he had been a teacher at Corusca University during the Republic, where he had taught special lectures to Jedi padawans. He'd told her a little about Jedi.

_Stop it, Leia you're distracting yourself_. She needed to sleep—she wanted to sleep. But she couldn't anymore, because she was scared of the dreams. They'd begun when she turned ten, and they hadn't stopped getting worse since. Two years ago she had decided she would stop telling anyone else about them. She knew her father was worried about her, and that had been when the dreams weren't so very scary.

All this week, she had stopped even trying to sleep until she was so tired she could not keep her eyes open another second. Only when she was deathly exhausted could she get the nightmares to leave her alone. She felt tears well up. It wasn't _fair_, she wanted to sleep! She wanted to sleep without having to hear the screaming and the flames and the dying baby, without seeing people she didn't know but who wouldn't leave her alone! Why couldn't she get rid of them? There was nothing her doctors hadn't tried, and no doctor that _she_ hadn't tried.

She had begun lying to her father after it became clear that nothing was going to work. No point in two of them being miserable about affairs, and Leia was nothing if not supremely practical. She was a princess, after all. She was supposed to be strong and set a good example for everyone, keep up appearances.

Except she didn't think she could keep looking like a princess much longer, not without wearing an actual mask. She was so tired anymore, and she had to steal from her nurse's makeup to hide the circles under her eyes. Fortunately she was a good enough actress to act like she wasn't utterly exhausted, and disciplined enough to keep pace with her studies the same as before. She was determined to spare her father the added stress. He was so busy all the time; especially now.

She sat cross-legged on her bed, staring blankly at the opposite wall, her desklight on. She couldn't remember when she'd turned it on.

Last night there had been a new dream. Thank the Force it hadn't been a nightmare, but she was objecting to it on principle this time. She had clearly seen two boys, wandering through black streets, highlighted as though by a stagelight; one short and blonde, wearing a dull green jumpsuit; one taller and dark, in shirt and trousers. Just wandering around, both of them, through the darkness.

She hotly denied to herself that she felt any attraction to either of the boys. First of all, it would be completely ridiculous to have a crush on a dream. Secondly, she had long since decided to hate all of her dreams, and she would be cursed if this one was going to be any different!

Not only was Leia practical; she was also fiercely democratic.

Sighing, the little princess dragged herself out of her bed, finding it rather difficult to keep her footing. Her dreams had been even worse than normal this whole last week. But she blamed it on the added stress of their guest. Anybody would be extra nervous around _him_, although of course being a princess it was her duty not to betray any such sentiment. She must _not_ be frightened; she must be twice as gracious and regal as normal.

Actually, she really wasn't scared of him. Well—at least not nearly as scared as everyone else seemed to be. Leia was always very perceptive of others' emotions; it was just a gift she had, being able to tell how they were feeling. She supposed it was the way they carried themselves, or maybe a slightly different inflection of the voice, but she could see plain as day that the whole royal court was terrified of its half-imposed guest.

Although he hadn't exactly invited himself over for a visit—indeed, he seemed about as happy with the arrangement as the courtiers—neither Bail Organa nor Darth Vader were about to refuse the Emperor's suggestion that the dark lord retire himself to Alderaan while his command, Fifth Fleet, underwent its annual upgrades and repairs in the nearby Kuati system's Navy shipyards.

_Why_ Lord Vader objected to the suggestion was something Leia could not quite fathom. She felt quite sure he did not want to be on Alderaan, but that left one to wonder where it was that he _did_ want to be. Surely not with the fleet—there would be nothing for him to do while the ships were upgraded, and from what she knew of Lord Vader he was not one to be idle.

She knew a great more about him, too—not good things. He was a horrid, dark, evil man by all accounts. She had been entirely prepared to hate him when he arrived, and to be very studious in hiding that dislike. But, though she was constantly aware of his dislike of the circumstances, he had proven more equable than anyone had expected. His temper was the stuff of legends, but Leia had yet to hear him raise his voice significantly. In fact, she didn't hear him much at all. Except for meals and other such required appearances, he generally kept to himself.

Being as she was still only twelve, Bail did not generally have Leia come to the state dinners and other formal occasions; so in the week that he had been here Lord Vader had crossed her path only three or four times, and that at a distance. Still, whether she saw much of him or not, his presence seemed to hang over the palace grounds and darken everyone' s moods; she was sure the general stress was affecting her nightmares.

That did not make her situation any less frustrating.

Wearily, she trudged across the expanse of her room to her closet and groped around for something warm. She probably wasn't supposed to, but she was going to go for a walk in the gardens. Nobody had specifically told her it wasn't allowed, so her father wouldn't have any grounds to punish her. And just right now, she was so miserable she really wouldn't have cared anyway. She just _had_ to find some sort of respite. It was almost as if she was being dragged out there by an invisible leash.

She perked up a little as she slipped out into the hall, padding softly so as to avoid waking anyone, past the moss painting on the wall, towards the private terrace. There was a bigger pavilion out front, adjacent to the main dining chamber, which was used for the formal parties and such; this smaller one was reserved for the family and guests. It opened out into the gardens in the center of the palace. There were walkways through the flowers, hidden little bowers and fountains. It was soothing there. Maybe she would even manage to fall asleep.

_Yeah, right_.

The gardens were breezy and cool when she got there, wrapped up in a blanket that had happened to be close at hand when she opened her closet room. She immediately felt herself calmer as the soft scents and sounds washed over her. Slowly the small girl began meandering through, blinking in bleary exhaustion, moving in a kind of daze.

She was nearly sleepwalking after a few minutes, but a sudden whisper of a sound managed to penetrate the haziness and snapped her back to attention. What was that? She was sure she had heard something! There, again—it seemed to be coming from the big fountain in the center. Feeling suddenly adventurous, she scampered off the path into the bushes and began crawling through. The sound began to be clearer; definitely there was a rhythm to it, but it must be from the opposite side of the fountain courtyard. She emerged from the bushes cautiously and cautiously lifted her head up just enough that she could peer over the top of the fountain rim at the far side.

Her blood seemed to freeze. _Darth Vader_ was standing right over there, his back to the fountain, his head tilted up towards the sky, motionless. It was rather as though she had been walking along a river and had stumbled across an inert crocodile.

_Breathe very, very quietly, and maybe he won't notice_—

But the second she thought it, he turned around and stared directly at her. Good Force, could he read what she was thinking?

"It is entirely too late for a child to be awake," he rumbled at her. "Should you not be in bed, little princess?"

She swallowed and stood up. "I couldn't sleep." She was a little surprised that she didn't stutter, and even more that she dared speak again an instant later. "Why aren't you asleep?"

He circled around the fountain slowly. "I find this preferable."

"So you couldn't sleep either," she muttered. He heard her anyway.

"No," he returned, sounding a bit amused.

She hadn't expected a Sith Lord to act so congenially. Especially not to a little girl.

"Why could you not sleep, little one?"

She didn't understand, not at all! Why would he be interested in her? This didn't seem like the Darth Vader she'd heard about—the one who had destroyed the Jedi, who had bombed out cities full of people without warning, who strangled his officers at the slightest offense. A man who had done all that—and he _had_—shouldn't care about one young girl!

He was standing some feet in front of her now, obviously expecting that she answer.

"Nightmares," she mumbled, a bit ashamed and a lot confused.

There was a silence before he answered. "I understand that." His voice had not changed, but she sensed a definite empathy. He really did understand. Maybe that was why he was awake? "Your father mentioned a few months ago that you had been troubled by them."

She was immediately indignant. Her father hardly needed to go around telling everybody on Coruscant about her personal life! It wasn't right!

"Your father does not constantly chatter about your health. I specifically asked him."

Her eyes flashed up. "Why did you ask—wait! How did you know that? I don't want you reading my mind!" Defensiveness flared up immediately; through her indignation she faintly noticed he was surprised by her outburst.

They stood in a tense silence for a minute or so. Leia clutched her blanket a little more tightly around her, chilled by the unwelcome reminder of why everyone around her was so very scared of this man. All of a sudden she was struck by how _big_ he was.

She almost cringed as he abruptly moved towards her, frightened, but he only reached out and lifted her chin carefully. "Have these nightmares persisted long?" he asked her, rather like a doctor would.

She didn't answer him at first, beginning to feel very uncomfortable indeed; but his grip tightened just enough that she decided it might be dangerous not to tell him. And if her father might not want her telling Darth Vader about her dreams, he certainly wouldn't want her hurt. "Yes," she finally whispered.

"How long?"

"A-about three years." She could feel herself starting to tremble. She'd come to the garden to get away from her nightmares—but this was beginning to feel like one of them. Full of darkness and mounting fear—and Lord Vader even reminded her very strongly of that dark man of her dreams.

"What do you dream of?"

But now she was shaking all over. All of her dreams were pouring down on top of her, crushing her down beneath their weight—it was worse than even the experience of them had been. Every horrific, mysterious image seemed magnified a thousand times over—they were spilling out, surrounding her, filling up the gardens with their ghastly, terrifying forms. The fires were burning again, burning all around her, trapping her—dimly she heard the screaming start again, and that was the last thing she could remember.

Vader had sensed the young princess' rising fright, but he was thoroughly startled nonetheless. No sooner had he asked her about her dreams than she began to shake, so violently it was almost a convulsive fit. He reached out with his other hand to take her arm, trying to steady her. But it was to no avail; she didn't even seem to be registering her surroundings anymore. Her eyes and mouth opened wide in pure terror—she wrenched her head around desperately in his grip until he let go of her altogether.

He watched in admitted consternation as the child stumbled back from him, gasping, twisting in circles. Was this one of the "nightmares" that had been plaguing her? He didn't know what else it could be. But it was certainly no ordinary nightmare, and his interference might make it worse.

When Leia began to scream and sob, though, he decided it was time to summon help. He reached for his com and brought up Bail's private line.

He felt an unexpected rush of relief when the man answered promptly. "Lord Vader?" he asked, obviously bewildered. To his credit, he recovered quickly. "I take it there has been an incident of some sort." The small holographic figure cocked his head. "Is someone screaming?"

"Your daughter," Vader answered him shortly. "She seems to be suffering from a nightmare of some kind; I suggest you come to the gardens immediately."

"The gardens? Why—"

"Not now, Senator," he snapped. "I will supervise her until you arrive." He switched the com off.

By the time Organa arrived, little Leia was huddled against the rim of the fountain, sobbing so hard she could scarcely breathe, shoving violently at the air as though to push away some hideous assailant. The dark lord had put up a Force shield to keep her shrieks from waking the entire palace. Bail came running down the path, nightrobe flapping in the breeze, wearing an expression of panic to rival his daughter's.

"What's the matter with her?" the Senator gasped, as soon as he could hear the poor girl. "Leia!"

She only wailed and turned in against the wall, hands pressed against her ears, staring wildly at invisible horrors.

Vader turned to him. "I took it to be one of her nightmares."

"No—no, she's never acted this way, I've never seen her like this!" He started towards his daughter again, but Vader caught his shoulder.

"Stop. It may be harmful to disturb her if this is similar to sleepwalking."

Bail halted, hands hanging helplessly at his side. "Force, we can't just leave her that way," he breathed. "_This _is harming her too!"

Vader nodded, considering. As far as he could tell, this seemed to be a Force trance of sorts. If Leia had been a Force sensitive, he could have directly touched her troubled mind and coaxed her out of the semi-trance; but the child had certainly been tested a dozen times for that by now, as per Imperial regulations. Perhaps Leia had a tiny edge of enhanced sensitivity when she dreamed, but not enough that he could deal with the problem in that manner.

He saw only one other possibility. He reached quickly out with the Force and found the pressure points on her head before she could react to his intervention. In a few seconds, the girl slumped forward.

"She is unconscious," he announced after checking her. The Senator quickly joined them at the fountain rim, helping lower her to the pavement.

"Is she all right?" he asked nervously, already feeling her pulse.

Vader did a quick scan of her presence. Though she seemed badly traumatized, he found no indication of injury. "She does not appear to have suffered any damage."

Bail shot a shrewd gaze upward. "I find it curious she is even _here_."

_With you_, the unspoken words hung between them.

"She said that she had not been able to sleep."

Bail frowned. "Did she say why?"

"Nightmares. You said some time ago she had been suffering from them, did you not?"

"Yes, but she hasn't complained of them almost since then." Bail stroked Leia's hair with deep concern. "In fact, she said outright she wasn't having any trouble sleeping."

"Your daughter is an impressive liar," Vader noted dryly, ignoring the other man's stab of irritation.

"It could have been an isolated incident."

"She informed me she had been suffering from them consistently for nearly three years," Vader objected.

Bail shook his head in disbelief. "She's too stubborn," he muttered. "Much too stubborn." A silence fell briefly. "But what caused this to happen? If she was talking to you, she can't have been in any trouble initially." His gaze was again suspicious—fearfully so.

"I asked her what her nightmares were about. She began shaking, and then fell into much the same state as you saw her in. Presumably memories of her nightmares were to blame." The dark lord stood. The intimacy of the situation was suddenly impressing itself upon him to a very undesirable degree.

"Force, they must have gotten worse than before," Bail murmured. "Or she didn't tell me everything to start with."

"I would not be surprised if she did not," Vader said sharply. "She is indeed entirely too stubborn, and you would do well to break her of it before she injures herself further." And with that he stalked out of the gardens to his chambers, in a truly fearsome mood.

He was getting soft, he growled at himself—concerning himself with that girl! Sith lords did not concern themselves with the petty nightmares of children.

He stopped in his tracks. Actually, Sith lords were not supposed to concern themselves with children at all. Yet he could not even think that without an ache rising in him to be back at Bast Castle.

How big his daughters must be getting by now! Today they were two years old, his precious little girls. Sara and Sandra. He wanted nothing more than to get on the next ship off Alderaan and fly back to see the twins. He had in fact seriously contemplated doing it, and even had gone so far as to order his shuttle readied before coming to his senses and revoking the command. If he began to behave erratically, and cause the Emperor's suspicion, Palpatine would kill him, and not only would he never see the twins again, they would be left orphans—potentially at the nonexistent mercy of the Emperor himself, should he take any interest in Vader's holdings on Vjun.

Yet fatherhood was undeniably having its effect on him, as evidenced by his encounter with young Leia, whose very name made it impossible for him not to think of his children. The fact that the little girl reminded him so strongly of Padme likely had not helped matters. So fiery, so practical and bold. She would make her politician father proud someday. _He_ would certainly be proud, were she his daughter.

Force, but he had to be more careful! He could not afford to be soft again, not like that. It was all well and good to love his daughters—but they must not be allowed to affect him beyond the confines of Vjun, or he would not have much longer to love them.

_Meanwhile, in a certain seedy cantina…_

Han sighed with relief as he finally turned the final corner and covered the remaining distance to the underground cantina. At last, somewhere with at least a modicum of safety. It hadn't been as bad as that memorable day two years ago, but he was more than ready for the rest.

He trotted towards the bar—but a small mop of blond hair caught his eye before he quite got all the way. He could hardly believe his eyes as he recognized that kid from the hangar two years back—what was his name again, Trevor? Nah…

The kid—who'd gotten at least a bit taller—was with old what's-his-name, the guy with the weird accent and graying hair, and both of them were bent over a holoboard. Good grief—that wasn't _dejarik_ the old man had the kid playing! Kreth, how would he ever survive in the real world? Han was almost beginning to feel a duty to give the boy a sabacc education, cause for sure the kid wasn't gonna learn it from the old man, and he wasn't gonna make it too far without knowing the galaxy's most basic pastime. Someone'd probably shoot him out of pure disgust.

Not that he was good at it himself really. Pretty much that was what had happened to his money for finding a flat for those two—he couldn't quite give up his hopes of getting his own ship, and he could see no way of accomplishing that except winning one in a game.

But he'd saved fifteen hundred credits. He wasn't an idiot.

He actually wondered for a few moments whether or not he would sidle over and say hello—but then he came to his senses and headed straight for the bar…

…Only to be flagged down by a calm "Hello, Han," from the old man.

"Yeah, hey," he gritted out, turning slowly, his hand resting on his blaster (the only profitable investment he'd made of his money from the old man).

"You seem to be looking well, my young friend," the guy continued, leaning back as he finished a move.

Han scowled, but before he could find a suitably stinging reply, the man gave an inviting gesture. "Unless you're meeting someone?"

"Nah," he sighed, and sat himself reluctantly down on the seat next to the kid. The youngster did not look up at him; he was too engaged in frowning at the game board. Neither did the old guy—Kennedy? nah—start up a conversation; he seemed as intent on the kid as the kid was on the game.

They spent a good minute in silence before the boy abruptly reached out and tapped an empty square on the board, then pointed at one of the old guy's players, with quite an air of triumph.

"Very good, Luke," the old man said approvingly. Luke—yeah, he remembered that now. But what was the old guy's name again? Aha! Kenobi, that was it.

Han frowned at the board. "Isn't he supposed to make a move?" he finally asked aloud.

"Oh, no, it was my move," said Kenobi; and he reached out and moved the monster to the square Luke had pointed out.

Though he would not of course be caught dead playing the game, Han figured it wasn't exactly playing by the rules to allow your opponent to tell you where you were supposed to move.

It ought to be Luke's move now, he guessed—but Luke leaned back into his seat, arms folded, small mouth set almost grimly, as Kenobi leaned over the board. Where Luke had taken at least a minute, the old man sat back up in about twelve seconds. "The rancor, to H7," he announced; and Luke's face fell. "You did better that time," the old man added encouragingly. Still somewhat morose, the boy obediently directed his monster to H7.

"Hey, I don't get it," Han finally demanded, after this bizarre procedure had continued for several moves on either side. "How come you tell each other where to move?"

"I'm not telling him where to move," Kenobi said serenely. "I am telling him where he is _planning_ to move."

Han blinked. "You're telling him what he's thinking?"

"Yes, after a fashion. Of course, some of it is interpreted from the board."

"Krakana to A12," Luke announced suddenly. Kenobi shook his head.

"That's not right."

Luke sat back sourly. "Well, you _should_ have moved there," he muttered, as Kenobi selected a different monster. "Now you left the vaapad open." He moved another of his monsters to slay the vaapad, which let out a convincing death howl.

"Oh," the old man smiled mystically, "I think it all depends on your point of view." He made his next move—and effectively crushed Luke's krayt dragon. "Game over, I'm afraid."

Luke glared at him for a second, but recovered his equanimity speedily. "Is that enough now?"

"Yes, I think that's enough practice of that for one day. You are improving, certainly."

"The longest I made it was twenty seconds," Luke objected.

"Four better than last time," Kenobi pointed out.

"Well, if I'm improving so much, shouldn't I deserve a reward?"

Kenobi laughed. "This time won't hurt, I suppose." He waved to the bartender, and ordered three drinks up. Han, having long since been introduced to Corellian whiskey, was downright scornful of the mild stuff that arrived; but out of some misplaced sense of courtesy, he didn't object.

"So, you think you're some kinda Jedi, Kenobi?" Han finally asked, swirling his drink around in his mug. "Playing that mind-readin' game or whatever?"

Had he been a littler older and wiser, Han would have noticed Kenobi stiffen just a touch; and he would have been watching Luke too, and would have seen the boy cast a sharp glance around the nearby booths. But he didn't.

"Merely a mental pastime, young Master Solo," Kenobi answered smoothly. "Good for a young mind." He nodded to Luke, who Han now noticed was staring fixedly at his mug.

The conversation wound on, away from the topic of the strange game, on to Han's recent exploits and those of his companions during the two years that had passed, on to the most interesting events of Coronet, through numerous anecdotes and sharp repartee on the part of Kenobi, who despite his general weirdness had a wit to rival any of the spacers Han could name.

"Well, Master Solo, I fear Luke and I must take leave of you," Kenobi finally wound down. "A pleasure to meet with you again."

Oddly enough, Han found himself agreeing. "See ya sometime, kid," he said, tousling Luke's hair in what he supposed was a friendly sort of way. The three of them left and went their separate ways from the door of the cantina.


	6. Remembrances

Author's Note: I promised you I wasn't being lazy…here's another nice long update for you. As always, I'm not paying the EU much attention, with the particular case in point being geography this time…if some mistake really annoys you, let me know.  Please know all comments are welcome—you can criticize me to your hearts' content, as long as you try to be civilized about it. Now, without further ado…hope you enjoy!

When Leia awoke, there seemed to be a thick haziness floating around her. It was rather like a cloud had floated into the room. But although everything was blurry, she could still tell that she was not in her own room.

Rack her brains as she would, she couldn't remember why.

"Leia?"

It took her a moment to recognize her father's voice, as it too seemed to be distorted. Slowly she turned her head to the left—and saw to her surprise that he was sitting beside the bed, holding her hand. She could feel his other hand now, brushing back her hair.

"Daddy?"

He nodded. "You gave me quite a scare, young lady."

_Young lady?_ _Oh, no…_ Gently spoken as it was right now, she knew perfectly well that that phrase could only mean trouble for her. The problem was, she hadn't the faintest idea what he could be upset about.

"What did I do?" she asked meekly. The haziness was going away now, thank goodness.

Her father's expression immediately became as concerned as she had ever seen it. "Do you not remember what happened last night?"

"Last night? Wasn't I asleep?"

"No. Do you remember getting up and going for a walk?"

She frowned, pondered—and abruptly remembered how she had been unable to sleep and had gone out to the gardens. "Now I do—but I just—I just wanted—I mean I thought that maybe I could go to sleep again if I walked—"

"Shh," her father cut in. "I'm not upset that you went for a walk."

"—And you never said I couldn't—you're not?"

"No, I'm not." Her father smiled a little at her and squeezed her hand. "Now, do you remember what happened there?"

Something was definitely nagging at her memory now. "I remember crawling through the bushes," she said softly. "I think I was looking for something—I heard something, that was it, and it didn't sound normal…"

The noise she had heard came rushing back—it sounded like a _respirator…_

She almost sat bolt upright as she remembered. "It was Lord Vader!" she yelped suddenly. She rolled frantically over towards her father. "Daddy, I promise I didn't know he was there—I wouldn't have gone if I thought he would be there!"

"Leia, I know it's not your fault," Bail sighed. "But you should have left as soon as you knew he was there."

"I was going to—but he saw me and came over, and I couldn't just run away!"

"Yes, you can—you can, and if that ever happens again, until I say otherwise, that's what you do."

"But he could have caught me easy!"

"He wouldn't have done that."

She was so confused. "If he wouldn't try to catch me, why should it matter if I stay or not?"

"Leia, there are a great many things you do not know about Darth Vader. He does not always seem so very dangerous—but what have your professors and I told you about appearances?"

"That they're deceiving," she recited.

"Just because he might not try to physically harm you does not mean he cannot hurt you in other ways," her father said grimly. "Remember that until I come back."

Leia blinked. "Come back?"

"I have to go back to Aldera."

"But—where are we then?"

"I brought you to Castanta. You've been here before, remember?"

Of course she did—Castanta was a small, remote seaside town, and the Organa family had a summer home here. But they did not come to it often, because it was on the clear opposite side of Alderaan from Aldera.

"Daddy, _what happened?_" she demanded.

"I need to know exactly what you said to Lord Vader."

"Why?"

"Leia, I have to know _everything_!" Her father's hand tightened on hers—he grabbed her shoulder and pulled her to face him head on. "Leia, he is a dangerous man to anyone, but you are in much greater peril than most—you must tell me everything!"

"Why is he so much more dangerous to me?" she cried out. She tried to get up, but her father held her still.

"Leia, hush—I want you to rest. Lie down. I can't explain everything to you right now. You're going to have to take my word for it right now."

"If he's so dangerous why didn't he hurt me?"

"I said, not right now. I _will_ explain some of it to you later, but _not now_."

She felt like crying. And she never cried. "Why not now?"

"Because I do not know what Lord Vader may or may not think about what happened last night. And I most certainly do not want you in Aldera until he is gone."

"Daddy, _what happened last night_?"

"I'm not quite sure what happened, Leia, but from what I saw it's perhaps best you don't remember," Bail said gently.

"No! Please, what if I remember what it was while you're gone and I can't come back yet? What if it happens again?"

Bail was silent for a moment. "All right," he said finally. "It was a nightmare of sorts, Leia. Apparently Lord Vader asked you—"

_What do you dream of?..._

And that was all it took—she remembered. "I was seeing all my nightmares," she whispered. "It was like they were in the garden all around me. And then—I don't remember anything else."

"You were screaming when I got there," Bail told her. "Do you remember that?"

She shook her head.

"What nightmares were these?"

And suddenly she remembered that he had said _young lady_. Obviously her father realized that she had not been telling him about her dreams as he had wanted. But even that was not the main reason she did not want to describe what she'd seen. They were just too horrible to speak about.

Bail cajoled and commanded and begged for nearly an hour, trying to get a description of the dream from her, and the farthest he got was an admission that a Vader-like figure had been involved. Finally he switched back to digging out the conversation that had transpired between his daughter and the dark lord, with more success.

He spent a few more precious moments making sure she was quite calmed down, reassuring her that she was safe here in Castanta, before he finally left Leia to the capable hands of the housekeepers—and several concealed bodyguards on alert within the grounds and throughout the city. He reboarded his shuttle and broke every speeding law on Alderaan to get back to the capital city and the palace before eight of the morning in their zone. The Force willing, the Dark Lord would not recognize anything amiss; and he could only pray Vader's fatal suspicion had not been aroused.

He ought to have sent Leia away to Castanta as soon as he knew Vader was coming, he berated himself. Force, what had he been thinking to let biological father and daughter come into such close range? Nothing good could ever result from such carelessness—and the incident that had occurred might well prove to be a disaster. He could think of no excuse, glimpse no future wherein the Dark Lord remained completely unsuspicious of the events of last night and made no attempts to investigate House Organa.

It was in a state of the utmost dread that he landed at Aldera Palace and disembarked—to the veritably horrific sight of Darth Vader himself storming out of the palace building into the hangar, accompanied by a cadre of armored stormtroopers.

In desperation, he turned back and murmured to his aide, who moved back up the shuttle ramp to the task of wiping the ship-log—probably a futile measure, but there was a chance that it might keep Leia safer a little longer. After that there was nothing to do but put on a pleasant expression and walk down to meet his ominous guest, all the while wondering how he was to explain himself, and whether any explanation even mattered anymore.

"Senator Organa," Vader said tersely. "I apologize for the short notice"—he did not sound even remotely contrite—"but certain developments require my immediate departure. Accept my thanks for your kind hospitality."

As abrupt as that strange day of the belated, perfunctory briefing almost a year ago—and already, the dark lord was striding past him towards the Imperial shuttle on the landing pad outside the hangar; which, since Bail's departure with Leia, had been joined by an identical twin.

"Farewell, my lord," Bail called after him helplessly. In a few more moments the Imperials had all boarded, and the shuttles launched up towards the skies. Utterly unable to believe his good luck, Bail contacted System Control as soon as he reached a com unit, demanding the status of the Imperial warships overhead—and soon received confirmation that the destroyer and its two corvettes had all made the jump to hyperspace.

What in the galaxy could have been so urgent as to cause Vader to quit the system with such abruptness? Surely not the Rebellion—even had a major battle occurred, there was little the dark lord could accomplish by arriving in its aftermath sooner rather than later. Had there perhaps been some crisis on Coruscant? Perhaps, even, the Emperor…?

No; that would be entirely too fortuitous, much as he would love to see that shriveled, venomous beast of a being drop dead out of the blue.

Bail retired himself to his office and paced back and forth, going over the stressful turn events had recently taken. Gone though Vader might now be, he felt it would not be wise to bring Leia back to Aldera just yet—not until he was very sure the Empire's second-in-command had no intentions of returning—and indeed, the more he thought about it, perhaps it would be safest if the girl simply vanished from the public for a good long while. The last thing he needed was any further Imperial attention.

On the other hand, her absence might in itself be conspicuous. Force, what was he to do?

Finally, he resolved himself. Leave Leia at Castanta for the next two weeks, and as soon as possible, contact Master Kenobi. This was getting beyond his control; at the very least, he needed to know whether it was likely the dark lord would be much suspicious of his little princess. How, how he hated to risk Kenobi's cover—but it would be worse to see Leia dead.

Darth Vader waited on the bridge until the _Vindicator_ and her accompanying corvettes were safely in hyperspace; then he whirled from the viewport and marched away to his personal conference room. It was empty—except for one, a man of middle age with gray eyes and a scar.

"Agent Baranne," he acknowledged, waving the man back into his seat while he himself paced the length of the conference table. "Have you had any further intelligence?"

"I'm afraid not, my lord," Baranne shook his head, flipping open a dossier. "I have sent orders to my contact on Corellia to stand down; if this is indeed Kenobi, we would appear to have a significant advantage at the moment, and I felt it would be unwise to risk alerting him."

Vader continued pacing, trying to contain his agitation. Baranne was right, certainly. He had come to the conclusion that the agent usually was. "Has your Corellian contact been trailing the suspect prior?"

"No, my lord—the information was entirely accidental. It would seem he overheard a chance remark in the cantina, directed to a Kenobi."

"There are thousands of Kenobis," Vader growled.

Baranne's only answer was to withdraw a data chip from the dossier and plug it into the table media system. It was strictly audio. The bustle of what sounded like some sort of bar or cantina began. A discussion was being held in some language Vader did not know. Then, during a lull in the conversation, he heard a young man's voice in the background.

"So, you think you're some kinda Jedi, Kenobi?"

He listened harder as the conversation resumed, trying to hear those background voices through the prattle; but soon the recording cut off.

"We've done some analysis on the voices," Baranne continued. "We were able to isolate one that produced a seventy-point-two percent match with the vocal profile of Obi-Wan Kenobi. Considering the rather poor quality of the recording and the passage of time, I felt this was a strong enough lead to put forth a significant effort. I trust you think my decision justifiable?"

"It is indeed justified," Vader concurred. Blood-lust raged in him already—he could feel the dark side reverberating with anticipation of the inevitable. Finally! After eleven years, his suffering would at last be avenged. "Should this venture prove successful, you will have earned my gratitude, Baranne."

In fact, the dark lord reflected as he swept out of the conference room, Baranne had earned that gratitude already. The agent had all but given his daughters to him, between the genetic samples and the recording from Kamino. But of course he could not express any of that to the agent, even had he so desired.

He brooded darkly in his hyperbaric chamber as the _Vindicator _leapt through time and space, reviewing all of his reasons for hating his old master, building his rage. Yet at the same, he cautioned himself to be prepared for disappointment. There was a chance that this was not even the Kenobi he was looking for; or worse yet, that his sly old master had caught on, and was already fleeing the system.

But something felt different in the Force—a throb of destiny was in its currents and ebbs, and he _knew_ that this time he would not meet with failure.

_On Corellia…_

It was rare that Obi-Wan could not sleep at nights—nowadays, anyway. The first two or so years after Mustafar, he had been painfully familiar with insomnia. But that was easily explained, given the…traumatic nature of what he had experienced. He was at a loss for what could be causing his restlessness now.

He sat bleary-eyed at the small table in the apartment he and Luke shared on the west side of Coronet, glancing around his surroundings. They had only arrived here last night—after young Solo's unfortunate remark in the cantina, he had felt it was wisest to relocate them. Of course, he had waited until Han was well away before going back to the cantina and examining the minds of everyone who had been within earshot of their table. He felt a little more at ease in the knowledge that none of them had paid the comment any mind, or indeed even noticed it. It was not, he had decided, worth uprooting Luke again from the system—but it could not hurt to move to a new home.

Sitting here now, he was beginning to reconsider his decision. Maybe it would indeed be for the best to just pack up altogether and leave the system. Firstly, better safe than sorry. Secondly, Luke had been acting decidedly out of character for the past few days, ever since the cantina conversation. The boy was quiet, restless, startled easily when they were on the streets, and had trouble focusing. They had been reviewing the levitation of objects yesterday—Luke had been utterly unable to keep anything in the air for more than a few seconds, and even then whatever he was lifting would waver and tilt crazily. Though he'd kept the boy practicing for an hour, Luke had only gotten worse with each try, until they were both too frustrated to continue.

But only last week, the boy had astounded him by levitating several dozen miniature starfighter models and whizzing them around in a carefully orchestrated battle. That was a far cry from the miserable performance he'd given yesterday.

Neither did the boy's distraction limit itself to matters of the Force. He was all but unable to do math of even the simplest level, a subject at which he usually excelled. Obi-Wan had to repeat instructions several times before he could be sure Luke would hear and remember everything. The boy could not fall asleep until very late, and was up before his Master; he claimed he was being awakened by dreams, but he was unable to remember them.

Maybe most alarmingly, he was constantly pressing for more information about his aunt and uncle's whereabouts, and asking whether the two of them were safe here in the new house, and whether Obi-Wan thought anyone had noticed them in the cantina. Never to his recollection had Luke been so uneasy.

Obi-Wan let out a shaky sigh. He admitted it—the boy's behavior was scaring him enormously. As the sky began to lighten outside, he decided that they would go out that very morning and find a ship off-planet. He hadn't the faintest idea where to take the boy, nor did he like the thought of Luke enduring another long period of homelessness. But better safe than sorry.

Six of the morning found the two of them in a hangar on the Strip of Coronet, negotiating the price for a small and shamefully battered freighter. The owner, a grungy-looking humanoid, eventually agreed to part with it for the outrageous price of 50,000 credits, but Obi-Wan was too relieved to have a ship to feel much indignation over what it cost him. They could sell it again in the next system and find something newer, anyway.

As they made their way down the Strip, headed back for the apartment to pack what they had and load the freighter, a commotion arose, and a familiar head of dark hair caught Luke's attention. It was indeed young Han Solo, darting through the crowds, and clearly fleeing the large, multi-armed, furious alien a dozen strides behind him. "Solo, you street scum!" it shouted—and the creature brandished a blaster, firing shots into the shrieking crowd.

Obi-Wan caught the youngster by the arm and dragged both Han and Luke into the skylift on the side of the street, rushing the door closed with the Force and shooting it up at twice its normal speed to the city transit platform overhead. Fortunately a turbotrain whistled to a stop at the platform before the irate alien chasing Solo could get to them, and in another few seconds they were safely on their way to the western side of the city.

"Thanks," Han panted, leaning over to catch his breath.

"Isn't it a bit early in the morning to have someone shooting at you?" Obi-Wan remarked wryly. He peered a bit closer at young Solo, and saw the scorched fabric of his shirt. "You took a bolt, it seems."

Han glanced at his arm and winced. "Yeah, looks so." He swore under his breath in Huttese, apparently believing Obi-Wan would not understand it. Nor did he in detail, but Luke certainly followed it well enough, and Obi-Wan sensed a spike of reproach from the twelve-year-old—if not shock.

"Come with us; I can see to that burn for you," Obi-Wan offered.

"Nah, that's okay—"

"I insist," Obi-Wan interrupted firmly. He could feel the Force nagging at him—demanding that he bring Han back to their soon-to-be-quitted house, for some purpose beyond his ability to fathom.

Han seemed a little subdued by the older man, and came with them to their sparse flat, where Obi-Wan sat him down firmly at the table and told Luke to pack up his things while he saw to the wound.

"You two goin' somewhere?" Han asked, as Obi-Wan dug through the cabinet for the box of meds.

"We're leaving system," was the short reply.

"Huh." Han looked around the small kitchen/living room, and peered into the door at the far end, where Luke was busily stuffing his clothes and a model T-23 into a backpack. Obi-Wan came back, rolled up the shirt sleeve, and began daubing it briskly with disinfectant.

"Hold still," he ordered, carefully putting down a patch of synthflesh over the burn. The blaster bolt appeared to have done no more than graze the teenager; the synthflesh should be sufficient to heal the damage. He swept the meds back into the box as Han flexed his arm experimentally.

"Thanks," he offered. "Hey, uh—do you need some help packing up?" He looked awkward and hesitant, and Obi-Wan could tell he was not in the habit of offering assistance for free.

Even though there really wasn't much to be done, he nodded. "Yes, thank you. That's very generous of you." He pulled one of their packing cases out of the apartment's closet and set Han to filling it with the books and data chips stacked on the shelves. They talked as they worked.

"So—what precisely do you do with yourself all the time, young master Solo?" Obi-Wan asked.

"Ah, odds and ends," Han said evasively, studiously keeping his eyes glued to the shelves. "I'm aiming to get myself a ship one of these days."

"A pilot, are you?"

Han grinned. "That's right." He forced the packing case lid shut and hefted the whole thing over to the door.

"And what do you plan to do with a ship?"

"Ah, I dunno. Probably sign on with a merchant fleet or something." He took Obi-Wan's filled packing case and put it on top of the first. "I thought about sendin' out an application to Academy."

Obi-Wan nodded. He couldn't fault the boy for wanting to pursue his dreams, and unfortunately the Imperial Academy was the best flight school the galaxy boasted. Besides, not every graduate of the Academy went to the Imperial Navy.

Luke emerged from his room, carrying his outsized backpack.

"You have everything?" Obi-Wan asked him. The boy nodded, shifting on his feet. He was looking very uneasy indeed.

Obi-Wan conducted a final survey of the little apartment; then all three of them picked up a bag and left it for good.

Vader clenched his fists sharply as the twisting panorama of hyperspace shrank down into the pinpoints of stars—ahead, through the bridge viewport, the planet of Corellia ballooned out of the void, the line of the sunrise splitting it into equal halves of dark and light. And just as suddenly as the presence of the world ahead loomed that of his old master—reaching slyly out, he caught the sense of the man, and a feral joy arose within him.

Indeed Baranne had not failed him.

No sooner was the _Vindicator_ settled into orbit than Vader was descending to the capital city of the planet in his personal shuttle, where he sensed his onetime master and comrade was currently located. His hand itched on the hilt of his lightsaber, every nerve—both real and artificial—trembled with anticipation. So, so close, after such a long deprivation…so close to his vengeance…

Han Solo and his two mismatched companions were halfway down the Strip to the hangar holding the freighter when Kenobi inexplicably missed a step. The case dropped to the ground, but the old man paid it no mind—his blue eyes were staring into the distance, with a vague hint of horror in them.

Beside him, Han heard Luke actually whimper, and he looked over to see the boy shifting from foot to foot as though he expected someone to whip around a corner and put a blaster bolt through his head. "Hey, kid, settle down," he ordered. "You all right, old man?"

Kenobi shook himself out of his daze. "Han, can you take a ship to hyperspace?" he demanded abruptly.

"Huh? Yeah, I guess so…"

Kenobi shoved the case at him, and reached into his belt beneath the cloak. "Take Luke—go to the hangar." He pulled some data chips and a flimsy printout from his belt pouch and pushed them into Han's hands. "The freighter is yours—just please, take Luke to the address on this chip, as quickly as you can."

Han stood dumfounded, staring at the yet-unsigned ownership deed and the chips. Kenobi reached down and took Luke by the shoulders. "Go with Han—he's going to take you to your aunt and uncle," he said hurriedly.

"Obi-Wan, what is it?" Luke whispered in terror.

Kenobi took a breath. "It's going to be all right, Luke. Just go with Han. If all goes well, I should rejoin you in a month or two." He lifted Luke's chin gently. "The Force will be with you, young one."

Luke just threw his arms tightly around Kenobi, and for a second there was stillness. Then they broke apart; Kenobi strode over to Han. "Whatever you do," he murmured, "make sure you keep that boy away from the Empire. Do you understand?"

Han nodded, standing a little taller. "Yessir." He turned to Luke. "Come on, kid." Grabbing the extra case up in the same hand as the first, Han seized the youngster by his arm.

"Quickly!" Kenobi shouted after them. They broke into a run.

Han was almost dizzy after several panting minutes of running through the swirling crowd, and so was Luke—but then an Imperial shuttle blasted overhead, and his energy was renewed. _Keep that boy away from the Empire._

Finally, there it was—Hangar 2187 loomed ahead. They raced through the entrance and up the ramp of what might just be the most dilapidated-looking hunk of junk Han had ever seen in his life (and he'd seen a lot of ships). But it couldn't very well be helped now—he was going to have to work with what he had. He dropped the cases as soon as they were inside the old freighter and hit the key to retract the boarding ramp, then shouted at Luke to follow him to the cockpit.

It took him a moment or two to find it, but once he was there he was relieved to find that the controls were pretty standard. It was a YT-1300, a good old classic—and despite its apparent age it started smoothly and lifted up at his command. Luke arrived behind him and was ordered into the enormous copilot's seat, where he had to sit on his knees in order to see the control panels.

Within a few more minutes they were clear of the planet—only to find themselves staring in the teeth of a full-fledged, bona fide Star Destroyer and a corvette escort. Han punched numbers desperately for the only system coordinates he knew besides Coruscant, veering as fast away from that Destroyer as he could—TIEs were deploying, he could see them on the sensors between power fritzes—

Then the boys both let out a gasp as the starlines extended around them, and the cumbersome freighter leapt cleanly into hyperspace.

_Planetside_…

Obi-Wan darted down the Strip in the exact opposite direction from Hangar 2187 and the boys, trying very hard not to reflect overmuch on the fact that he had just left the galaxy's last hope—and a child very dear to his heart—in the care of a teenage street rat, who might or might not know how to fly passably, and who might wind up crashing that dilapidated excuse of a ship even if he did. He tried to push the details of Luke's predicament out of his mind, focusing on navigating the crowds and putting plenty of distance between himself and the hangar holding the freighter. Without the Force, he would surely have been trampled repeatedly, for he kept glancing up to the skies, watching for the freighter.

A wave of coldness seemed to shoot through to his bones all of sudden, and he did not need to look up to know that the engine he heard now belonged to an Imperial shuttle. He looked anyway, and felt his blood run cold as he saw the shuttle being swallowed into the hangar only one down from where the freighter awaited.

But a few moments later, the saucer-shaped ship leapt with surprising smoothness from its berth, and without wasting an instant angled its nose towards the stars. In a heartbeat or two, it had vanished into the atmosphere.

Luke's fledgling presence dwindled into vagueness as the distance between them increased, until Kenobi had no way of knowing where the boy was. He would hope and pray that the ship made it into hyperspace. If only Vader had not been here, he could have reached out with the Force and simply asked Luke; but he dared not do anything to draw attention to the boy. As far as he could tell right now, Vader seemed to be quite single-minded—the only thing he was interested in was Obi-Wan. It was possible the Sith was still unaware Luke even existed.

If that was the case, and he dearly hoped that it was, the best thing he could do was put as much distance between himself and Luke as he could manage on short notice.

He had done the best he could in sending Luke quickly away from Corellia with young Han Solo; hopefully Krytoa would prove safe. As for himself…the onetime Jedi dashed down the Strip, glancing at every departure manifest he passed, hunting for a fast ship out of the system. He did not fear for his own life—death brought nothing more fearsome than unity with the Force, a final and long-desired reunion with all those of his comrades who had now gone before. There was nothing in this to be feared.

But Luke had a lot of living to do yet, and a great deal to learn—and if there was any way he could manage it, Obi-Wan intended to be around to see to that learning. The young boy was as a son to him. Force, how he hated the thought of leaving that child like this, with little to no knowledge of himself and his ancestry! Belatedly, it occurred to him that he had never once mentioned Padme's name to her son.

Quickly he recognized the fatal danger such a thought could be right now, and with a stern stroke of discipline put all further ponderings of Luke—and Leia—out of his mind. He drew his hood up as the barking orders of stormtroopers became audible behind him and tried to merge a little more fully with the crowds. This was not a good place for Vader to find him, given the black mood of the man and the environment. The spaceport had been locked down now anyway; he needed to get to somewhere more isolated, where bystanders would not lose limbs or lives to the dark lord's blind rage. He sidestepped into the next lift he saw and won a space on a transit train headed for the construction projects—just as the crowds cleared to the sides below, packing themselves against the buildings and each other to avoid the tall figure garbed in black barreling down the Strip.

Like a great black juggernaut, Vader propelled his way down the spaceport, heedless of both the citizens fleeing before him and the stormtroopers trotting behind him. He had attention only for the beckoning Force presence of his master, no emotion but feral anticipation of the kill. He swept the crowds with the helmet's optical sensors, using their special features to zoom in on faces as he sought that of his enemy—what a perverse delight it gave him, that the hideous results of the injuries he had suffered were now to be used against the man who had dealt them out. Oh, but it was fitting—

There! His fists clenched tightly as he recognized his former master, standing upon a transit platform several levels up. As he watched, a train drew alongside the platform, and when the shifting and milling of passengers was over, Kenobi was nowhere to be seen.

Did the old fool think he would be thwarted so easily? It was almost enough to make him laugh.

He spun on the officer leading the troops. "Contact the public transportation office. Find out where that train is going." The officer—thank the Force, he was one of the ones with some sense—promptly whipped out his comlink and began punching numbers. Either he was Corellian, or he had an admirable practical knowledge of city communications; for in the span of two minutes, the officer had presented him with a list of possible destinations.

"City Center, Treasure Ship Row, Salvador Street, Antilles Way…" The officer kept reading destinations off the list, a total of ten. "They're all on the east side of the city, my lord."

Vader pondered for a moment. "Get me a transport." Fortunately for the officer's continued health, there was a speeder rental a little farther up the boulevard, and a craft large enough to accommodate himself, the officer, and two of the troopers was soon commandeered. Vader took the helm—a complete disregard of naval protocol, but at such a time as this he could not have cared less—and wove the speeder haphazardly between traffic lanes to the east side of the city, tracing his former master's presence.

They soon caught up with the transit—he could tell Kenobi was still aboard—but just as they drew above the train it came to a halt at another platform, and when it left, Obi-Wan was still in the vicinity.

Vader directed the speeder between two buildings, out of the line of traffic, and took a quick survey of their new surroundings. They seemed to be amidst several large construction buildings—apartment complexes, he would venture—and there was little in the way of living presences in the place. The work was being done by massive construction droids, of course, under the watch of a few supervisors. They—and Obi-Wan—were the only life in the buildings.

If his old master's intention was to escape him, he had chosen the worst possible place in the city. There was nothing here to distract him from identifying Obi-Wan's Force signature, no other sources of life to confuse him. In this comparative wasteland, the Jedi's presence had all the subtlety of a nuclear explosion.

And as much as he hated the man, Vader knew very well that he was not stupid. Clearly, escape was not Obi-Wan's plan.

What, then? The Jedi evidently intended to face him; and Kenobi had to know that could only mean a fight. Either the old man meant to kill, or be killed. It was imperative that he know which. This could potentially be a trap—but he doubted it. Very strongly, he doubted it.

_After all…we had a policy on traps…_He recoiled at the surprising fond memory—then after a moment embraced it as fuel. He stoked the fires of his rage with the thought of their onetime friendship, and how Obi-Wan had betrayed him—turned Padme against him—mutilated his body—left him to burn alive in the fires of Mustafar—put him in this cursed suit, never to eat or breathe on his own or see with his own eyes again—never even able to touch his little daughters with his own hands!

He let his fury cool, like the blade of a new-forged sword, into something of more control, more cohesion—a tool, a weapon to be used. Deeply he drew on the dark side, and his fingers caressed the hilt of his saber. Obi-Wan was below him, in the ground floor of that nearest building.

Destiny beckoned.

Obi-Wan leaned shakily against the wall as looming hulk of his adversary appeared in the doorway of the ground floor. His memories of Mustafar came crashing back upon his mind, after years of repression—how clearly those hellish scenes now danced in his mind's eye. The vicious hatred in the eyes of his brother, the great drama of their duel across the vast stage of the lava fields, with the bodies of the dead and dying for spectators—the culminating duet of agony. He shuddered against the cold duracrete. For every one of Anakin's screams as he lay burning on the ash banks, his own heart had cried out one to match, and he still heard both in nightmares sometimes.

He stared now at Anakin's walking, artificially breathing corpse in rampant horror. It was one thing to see this frightful image on the holos—it was quite another to see and hear in person the mobile mausoleum, to try and fathom how this mechanized beast could ever have any connection to the vibrant, handsome Anakin Skywalker. Force, but he should have killed him on that lava bank! Indeed, he found himself agreeing that his former friend had every reason to hate his master for slicing off his limbs, leaving him to burn on the lava bank, for not having the strength to go back and deliver just one more merciful blow.

_Let me go after the Emperor…I will not kill Anakin…_

No, he would not. Not even when it was the most merciful, just, loving gesture he could give his friend. And looking back again on the remnants of that past failure, Obi-Wan knew that he could not do it now, either. Whatever mental tricks he tried to execute to separate Anakin and Vader, ultimately he could not forget the face that pined behind the mask. Never, not in this galaxy nor any other, could he bring himself to kill Anakin Skywalker.

Which meant, of course, that their decade-long battle could only end in one way.

Slowly Obi-Wan straightened. He should have seen this before.

…_why do I get the feeling you'll be the death of me…_

The black helmet swiveled around, scanning the room, and in only a moment the great insectoid eyeplates came to a rest on him. The dark lord stood still, and his lightsaber hung untouched from his belt, but Obi-Wan was not fooled. He could feel rage pouring from the man like a volcanic explosion, all but ripping the Force asunder.

"Anakin," he acknowledged, an infinity of sorrow in his heart.

"That name no longer has any meaning to me," retorted the Emperor's apprentice.

"I should imagine not," Obi-Wan sighed. They stood at a silent impasse for a time, broken only by the all-too-symbolic hissing of the respirator.

"Indeed I did fail you," Obi-Wan finally murmured. He shook his head slowly, still staring at Vader.

Vader did not quite seem know what answer to make to that. But Obi-Wan could sense his bitter agreement.

"As master and friend, I failed you," Obi-Wan continued. He didn't really know why he was bothering to say any of this. It was not as though it would make any difference. He had spoken much the same words on Mustafar, and look how _that_ had ended.

As he suspected, Vader was no more interested in his regrets now than before. "Perhaps you will find you are less the master now," he rumbled, very dangerously indeed. With a distinctive _snap-hiss_, a blood-red saber blade burst into being.

A fresh wave of despair struck Obi-Wan, sharper than anything he'd felt since Mustafar. He knew that as surely as the law gravity, there was no hope left for Anakin—he was dead, long dead—that mask was his tombstone. But the knowledge had not been able to strip him of the faint, aching hope that he might catch just one more glimpse of his friend.

Reluctantly he drew his own lightsaber from beneath his cloak, and mechanically ignited the shimmering blue blade. Almost in slow motion, the two of them shifted into classic ready-stance…

And then, in a sudden burst of strange new resolution, Obi-Wan flung his lightsaber away from him. The blade went out as the hilt clattered across the floor. Startled by this unanticipated tactic, Vader screeched to a halt in mid-strike, barely managing to contain his own momentum.

"What do you mean by this, old fool?" he snarled.

Obi-Wan only shook his head, with a smile on his face. "I will not fight you, Anakin."

….

"I will not fight you…" The words rattled around in Vader's head, eliciting fresh outpourings of rage and incredulity. After all the injury and betrayal he had suffered, was Kenobi now to deny him even the satisfaction of vengeance? How much more was he to endure from this man?

Kenobi stood in silence a few feet before him, suddenly wearing an inexplicable grin.

"What do you mean?" Vader demanded again, so furious and shocked he was practically beside himself.

"Once was more than enough," Obi-Wan returned. The smile fell away, thankfully. "More than enough."

"You will not deny me this!" Vader bellowed, utterly lost to rage. He slashed in the general direction of Obi-Wan's discarded lightsaber. "Pick it up!"

Kenobi only shook his head. "I will not."

"Would you prefer to be killed where you stand?" the dark lord hissed, snapping the tip of the blade up to his unwilling opponent's neck.

"Yes."

Vader flicked the saber down, drawing a vicious slash down the man's upper arm. Obi-Wan hissed in pain and staggered back a step, but he made no move towards his lightsaber. Further angered, Vader snapped his wrist around again, inflicting a second slash.

"We can play this game for hours," he snarled. "Days, if you want."

Obi-Wan leaned back against a pillar and closed his eyes, letting his injured arm hang. "Then so be it," he sighed. Not a pleasant prospect, to be minced to death. And perhaps it would have been more the right thing to go down fighting against the darkness of the Sith. But there simply was no will in him to endure a second such battle.

He gasped as the lightsaber sliced into his shoulder with a vengeance; if not for the column at his back he might have fallen. _There is no death; there is the Force…_

A fresh wave of peace suddenly came to him through the Force. He could not say how he knew it—but a certainty came to him that Luke would be safe. Luke would be safe; and if the price of that safety was his life, it was in his opinion an acceptable cost.

The lightsaber burned down the back of his right leg, and the sudden pain sent him to his knees. He had no qualms about sacrificing his own life—but was it absolutely necessary that it be so painful? Sometimes he really did wonder if the galaxy intentionally had it out for him.

"_I_ certainly do," snarled Vader from above. A fifth blow of the saber caught him across his shoulder blades and drove him to hands and knees.

There was a long pause after that—Vader was circling him like some great cat patrolling a bird cage, apparently re-evaluating his strategy. Presently his lightsaber hilt was kicked back in front of him.

"You seek death, evidently," Vader began, his filtered voice demonstrating a degree of self-control he had never attained as a Jedi. "I offer you a choice. You can either pick that blade up and die an honorable death, or you can be taken to prison—where, I give you my sincere word," he finished maliciously, "you most certainly will _not_ die."

Obi-Wan could see quite clearly what was intended in that threat. Decades of isolated confinement stretched before his mind's eye—doubtless Vader intended that separation to include the Force. Half a lifetime of pain and loneliness, dragging out minute by minute, without the possibility of an escape until old age should at last claim him.

But it was not that threat that made him pick up his lightsaber. It was the knowledge that, should he be imprisoned and left at Vader's mercy, he would as a matter of course be subjected to a thorough interrogation, and in the end Vader would simply rip directly into his mind to recover any information that might be useful.

And that would mean the discovery of Luke. Above all else, that could not happen.

He ignored Vader's abrupt rush of triumph as he curled his fingers around the hilt of the lightsaber one last time and concentrated on pulling himself back up. It was painful and difficult, particularly given the wound in his leg, and even more painful was the idea of launching any kind of attack on his lost friend.

He did not think anything in the universe could have made him do it but Luke.

With a final effort, he stood straight, looking Vader in the eye, and drew deep on the Force to push away the pain. If he was going to fight after all, he would by the Force fight well. Taking a deep breath, he pressed the activation switch.


	7. Denials

Author's Note: Well, not so much of a delay this time! Aren't you proud of me? I realize this chapter is shorter than the last couple have been, but an author can only write so fast…Hopefully you will enjoy this segment. If you have the time, reviews are always great…

_In the maze of hyperspace…_

Luke's nerves didn't seem to have calmed down yet. The kid was fidgeting on the bench in the rec room, where Han had tried to engage him in a game of dejarik, and kept glancing around, and after Han's last move, had burst into tears clear out of the blue.

Han figured that was okay. He wasn't feeling too calm just yet either, after all the sudden turns his life had taken in the last hour—and in his opinion, the kid had every reason to be terrified about the old man. The guy was creepy in his own right; throw in Imperial headhunters, and you had a recipe for a nervous breakdown.

Luke now had his head down on the table in his arms, shoulders still shaking violently; Han was collapsed into the seat, watching him a bit blankly, at a loss for what to do. Krethin' Force, he wasn't some kind of babysitter! What in the Empire was he supposed to do with this kid?

Abruptly he remembered the data chips Kenobi had thrown in his hands—hadn't the old man said something about an address? Yeah, that was right. He was supposed to take the kid to some address; it must be listed somewhere in the chips. He rummaged around in his pockets and scattered them onto the game table amidst the hunkered down monsters. There were four of them, all of the same model; he could find nothing to distinguish one from another.

Well, they weren't going to be any good without a reader. He cast a futile glance around the rec room of the ship, and finally went back to watching Luke. The youngster seemed to be calming down some now. Probably he ought to do something.

Uncertainly, he shifted himself over beside the kid. "Hey, uh…you okay?"

Luke didn't respond at all. Clumsily Han reached over and patted his shoulders. "Hey, it's all right," he tried. "We got away just fine, and I bet the old—uh, your friend—will too."

Luke shuddered afresh, and broke into outright sobbing, shaking his head violently. Sheesh, what had he said this time?

After a while Luke finally answered, sounding breathless and despairing. "No—no."

"No what?"

"He's not gonna get away." The kid sounded as though he'd read the entire story of Kenobi's life, or seen a documentary on him or something—there was absolutely no hope in his voice.

"Hey, how about a little optimism?" Han countered. "He could get away, ya know—nothin's for certain."

Luke just shook his head gravely again; Han decided it was probably better to get off the subject of Kenobi altogether. "Okay, well, first off we gotta find that address I'm supposed to be takin' you to. I don't suppose you'd happen to know it?"

Luke shook his head, wiping his face. "I don't know where they are," he said softly.

"Your uncle and aunt, right?"

"Yeah."

"Got a datapad?" Luke frowned and reached down to his backpack on the floor, rummaging through it for a couple minutes, but came up empty-handed. They then tried the cockpit systems, which should have been a sure bet. But the ship was apparently older than either of them had thought. The darned cockpit systems were actually too outdated to handle the data chips.

After Han had expressed his opinion of the ship—or more accurately, _im_pressed it upon the control panels, to the tune of several scratches on his fists—they spread out through the corridors to hunt for anything resembling a modern data reader. But none of the ship's systems were compatible. They met again in the rec room.

"What kind of krethin' sith-spawned son-of-a—" Han cut his rant off short at the disapproving glare Luke shot him from the seats. "What kind of an idiot owned this crate?" he amended.

"I think the owner was a third-rate dealer," Luke offered. "Probably nobody's flown her for years."

"Ya think?" Han groaned. "Any pilot with a working brain cell would've updated the systems by now!"

"Maybe there's a datapad in the cases," Luke mused.

_On Alderaan…_

Bail Organa paced nervously in front of his desk. He'd waited a good two days, to be sure that Vader's departure was permanent, before daring to activate a call to the emergency com number that Obi-Wan had given him on Polis Massa. He was still a bit reticent about using it now; but he had no idea what kind of danger Leia might be in, how much Vader might suspect, and there were only two beings in the galaxy that had a better clue than he did. And between Yoda and Obi-Wan, the latter would know more about Vader than the former.

Besides that, he didn't have a com number for Yoda.

So now he strode back and forth before his desk, casting impatient, nervous glances at the com system and the locked door. It would likely take quite a while for the call to be put through, at interstellar distances. And he had no idea anymore where the Jedi master was in the galaxy—he could be clear on the opposite side of it, in which case the call would still go through, but could take as much as twelve hours to connect. Possibly more, if Kenobi had ventured into the Unknown Regions…

No, he would not have done that. Not with the boy—too risky, certainly.

Bail sighed and sat himself back down in his chair. He had been waiting for three hours now—Force, but he hoped the call went through soon—

It chimed a ready signal, suddenly—Bail leaned quickly forward and keyed for the connection.

_Corellia…_

It was not quite so dramatic a setting as their last clash—the empty, bare-walled ground floor of a construction project, lit only by emergency lights and their clashing sabers. No fiery lava to illuminate the scene, or to make them watch their step—in fact it was eerily like the times they had used to hold practice duels in the blackout rooms at the Temple.

Except that even the blackout rooms had been equipped with ledges, sloping ground, rough uneven patches of flooring, obstacles—and this vast room was just flat.

Not a good setup for Obi-Wan. Given a demanding terrain, he might have gotten the better of Vader by virtue of being more nimble, and have possibly escaped him. But here the dark lord could use the superior strength of his prosthetic limbs, his height, to their full advantage.

He needed to find better terrain, or else he would shortly be made mincemeat. If he had to fight, he would certainly prefer escape to self-sacrifice. Desperately he wrenched his saber up into another block, and darted back several steps from Vader to gain a short reprieve, panting. His arm and leg and back all burned angrily, but thank the Force the injuries were not debilitating.

Vader circled for a moment before closing the distance quickly, and another rapid flurry of feints and parries cast sparks and the crazy flash of the blades across the bare permacrete. Obi-Wan broke apart again, barely escaping a slash that would have taken off his good arm. He shot a quick glance around the room, trying to find an exit—if not to freedom, then at least to more favorable ground.

There! A turboli—

The Force warned him and he ducked and rolled, pulled himself back up and had his lightsaber into a guard scarcely in time to deflect a particularly vicious attack from Vader. Thankfully his reflexes had not left him yet—he got quickly back into a two-hand defensive stance, before Vader could take advantage of his one-handed grip and slice his hand off.

A new strategy congealed in his mind—abruptly he switched to the attack, as hard and sudden and fierce as possible, driving Vader back several steps with the sheer speed of his attack and surprise. But if he had not anticipated an attack, even less had Vader expected him to break off mid-assault and tear across the room into the turbolift.

…

The dark lord snarled with rage beneath the mask as Kenobi fled him, slipping into a lift and sending it up. He had previously and still did know better than to assume the Jedi master a coward, but this!

Most likely Kenobi was hoping that farther up in the structure, they would encounter construction and the terrain would be friendlier. Or perhaps he simply wished to regroup. Either way, it seemed to be rather in contrast with his earlier sacrificial mood…not that Vader was in any way displeased by the prospect of a good fight. If Kenobi dragged this game of hide-and-seek on for too long, well, he would order his men to the construction control site and have them take over the building systems to slow the Jedi down.

But he was not averse to a bit of hunting…

…

Obi-Wan leaned wearily against the wall of the turbolift, and was trying to think where it would be best to stop when his thoughts were interrupted by a steady beeping.

It took him a moment to realize it was his—oh, Force, it was his emergency com! Was it even possible for life to get more hectic at present?

He seized it, switched it on, dreading the news he might have—and Bail Organa's voice came over the speaker.

"Master Kenobi?" he asked.

"Senator Organa," he gasped, still trying to catch his breath from the fighting. "Is she all right?" There was no need to identify _she_.

Bail frowned. "Other than suffering from some severe nightmares, she appears to be well enough at the moment," he answered. "But there was a worrying incident two days ago between her and a guest of the palace…"

"Quickly, please, Senator," Obi-Wan cut in, glancing at the lights on the lift. He wasn't far from the top—and he didn't want to leave himself trapped at the top. He stopped the lift and practically fled out of it. He had to keep Vader on the run long enough to speak with Bail.

"She fell into some sort of trance; our guest was with her at the time—apparently she was reacting to her nightmares, screaming and clearly terrified—I saw some of it myself. I fear that this may cause our guest to suspect her."

"Who was this guest?" Obi-Wan ducked down a side hall quickly. Vader was approaching via the lift he had used; but there was another at the end of this hall that he could take several levels back down.

Bail took a deep breath. "It was Lord Vader."

Obi-Wan nearly froze mid-stride.

"Master Kenobi, do you think he will suspect her?"

Obi-Wan dodged into the lift—he could hear the respirator growing louder as the doors sealed and the car plunged down. "Perhaps I could just ask him for you," he said darkly.

Bail stiffened. "What?"

Obi-Wan sighed. "Let's just say you may well not hear from me again."

"Master Kenobi—Force, what about—"

"Have a ship standing by for her with these coordinates," Obi-Wan cut him off, thinking quickly. He punched a well-memorized code into the com and transmitted it. "If the Empire comes after her, send her there. She will be cared for. Also—contact this number as soon as possible." He transmitted a second code as he ran from the turbolift to find another—he could sense Vader descending quickly after him. "It's the Lars' emergency com—there should be an important delivery en route. Check it until they tell you it has arrived. If it does not"—he racked his brains for a third code and transmitted it as soon as he had it—"tell them to begin searching for the ship with this transponder code." He arrived at another lift and desperately hit the activation key—but it did not respond. Vader must have had his men shut down the building's system. Desperate for just a little more time, he dashed down the first convenient hallway and discovered an emergency staircase.

Was that all he needed to tell Organa? "Did Vader give any indication he was suspicious of the incident?"

Bail shook his head. "Not in my presence," he said. "And I had her repeat their conversation—I don't believe there was anything suspicious. At least, not in what my daughter said. _He_ seemed to be acting rather out of character."

"How so?"

"He was enquiring as to the reason why she could not sleep, and asking about the nature of her dreams and how long they had persisted—and according to her, even admitting that he himself had been unable to sleep."

Obi-Wan frowned as he ran down the steps. Indeed it did _not_ sound like a Sith lord, particularly not one who had slaughtered children previously. The memory of the Temple recordings came sharply back to his mind.

Did Vader suspect the little princess' Force sensitivity? Was that why he had demonstrated an interest in her? Force, he could only hope not. "Keep a sharp eye," he finally said. "And do not let her go aboard any ship without having those hyperspace coordinates preprogrammed in. It would be best to keep her near the palace for a year—if nothing has happened by then, you may take it that she is safe." He emerged from the stairs, panting—and already could sense that Vader was on the floor. Of course. If he had men controlling the systems, he could easily order them to activate an individual lift for his use.

He didn't have much time.

"If there is anything I can do, I will do it," Obi-Wan said. "This com will not be good again."

"Yes, Master Kenobi." He paused, and then said softly, "May the Force be with you."

"And with you," Obi-Wan said tersely. He could hear the respirator again, faintly. "Kenobi out." He switched off the com, tossed it to the ground, ignited his saber, and drove it repeatedly through the device until he was absolutely sure nothing could be retrieved from its remains.

Thank the Force he'd been in the turbolift when that com went off—

The sound of the respirator came stronger to his ears. Desperately he glanced around, but in vain. If anything his situation was worse. He now found himself in a narrow corridor that permitted even less maneuverability than the ground floor had. And the turbolifts were down. On the rooftop, he might have managed to even the odds, given the rough constructions and scaffolding and other obstacles that were sure to have been present—but there was no way he would get up to the top levels now, not with Vader in command of the turbolifts.

His best bet would be back on the stairs, where he could at least perhaps gain the advantage of high ground. He spun in his tracks, decision made—and stopped promptly as a tall, ominous, black figure rounded the corner down the hallway.

Nothing for it now. Wearily the Jedi adopted his defensive stance once more.

"Your games gain you nothing," Vader hissed as he approached, clearly irritated by their little chase. "You cannot escape the power of the dark side."

Obi-Wan rather wanted to roll his eyes and remind Vader of the outcome of Mustafar; but he was still a Jedi, and Jedi did not taunt their opponents…

Suddenly he remembered Bail's frantic call; the possibility that Vader might suspect Leia's Force potential. There was no doubt in Obi-Wan's mind that Vader would indeed find such a peculiar trance most suspicious—the man had not been the Chosen One of the Jedi for nothing. Likely only word that he was on Corellia had distracted Vader from the incident…the Force had granted him only one chance to protect both Bail and Leia from the Empire.

_Oh, Force, no, not this too…_The mere idea was nearly enough to make him sick. _I cannot do that to Anakin! I cannot!_

Oh, but yes he could. He _had_ to—else risk the lives of a leader of the Rebellion and one of that same Rebellion's best hopes. There was really no choice. It might or might not work. It was a great risk—and the price must necessarily be his life, in the event that it succeeded. Yet he had to try. It was either this or kill Vader outright—and that he could not do.

The first step…taunting, unfortunately. "You may have forgotten," he spoke up, "but Sith lords are my speciality."

A spike of rage went up from Vader at the reference to the duel aboard Grievous' flagship with Dooku, and all the memories that went with it.

"And," Obi-Wan continued mercilessly, ignoring his conscience as much as possible, "I believe my ability to handle this particular Sith lord has been conclusively proven." He gestured up and down the dark lord's mechanized hulk with his lightsaber.

The onslaught was so vengeful it was a wonder he survived it, but he contrived to dodge past Vader and give him a good distracting slash to a prosthetic leg. It didn't disable the unit, but it destroyed enough connections to play havoc with the impulses, causing the limb to go out from underneath the dark lord's hulk briefly—and distracted him just enough for Obi-Wan's grim purposes.

In terms of physical strength, Obi-Wan was the weaker—but when it came to dexterity in the Force, his greater experience still accorded him the superiority. With Vader momentarily distracted and in a blind fury, he was able to break cleanly through the weakened walls around the man's mind.

Lightsabers were immediately forgotten.

A howl of incredulous fury erupted from the mask's vocabulator as Vader realized his opponent's intent. To his credit, he regathered himself and renewed his defense—but he could not get rid of Obi-Wan's presence in his mind, for the Jedi master was still the stronger of the two on this front. Quickly Obi-Wan sifted through memories, until he found the one he wanted. It proved simple enough to alter—it was much harder to cement the fabricated memory irreplaceably in Vader's mind. He had to make very sure it was no less vivid and realistic than any other memory the man had, to ensure that time would not fade it and cause Vader to realize where precisely he had tampered—that might be as fatal as the original memory. And upon seeing this one, he did not doubt that Leia's life depended upon his success.

The shrieks of rage continued; Obi-Wan flinched as they took on a note of pain. Darth Vader was no less stubborn than Anakin Skywalker, and he was having to rip and tear and wrench all over to get the memory satisfactorily altered. And at no small cost of injury to himself, due to the man's fierce efforts to thrust him out—but Force, if it had been the other way around, he'd be doing no less—

Done. Obi-Wan made a final check, but he had missed nothing.

All memory of the incident with Leia had been stripped from Vader's mind. There was absolutely nothing left to give him any cause for suspecting her. And just as importantly, he had left no hint behind him as to which memory had been subjected to tampering. It was as strong and perfect a mend as he could make—and Obi-Wan was if nothing else a very deft hand at mental tricks.

He held behind a few seconds more—he knew all too well what had to happen as soon as he withdrew from Vader's mind, in order to ensure that the man did not attack _his_ mind in turn and recover the information that had been taken. His hand was ready on his lightsaber hilt—subtly he turned it around, aiming it away from the dark lord, angling it up towards his own chin.

_I'm sorry, Anakin_, he sent gently to the raging mind around him. _I loved you, brother_. Nothing but raw fury answered him. One last time, he touched his lost apprentice's mind, trying to convey the depth of his sorrow and regret.

In one smooth, sudden retreat, he withdrew from Vader's ravaged mind—and before the dark lord could react, the blue lightsaber ignited, and Obi-Wan Kenobi was one with the Force.

_Aboard a certain battered freighter…_

Han and Luke were standing over the game table, fiddling busily with the locks on one of the cases when a bone-deep shudder shook Luke from head to toe. He dropped to his knees, and one hand was clenched around the edge of the table.

"Luke! You okay?" Han demanded desperately, not knowing what he'd do if the kid _wasn't_ okay.

"He's gone," Luke whispered. Unlike before, there was no sign of tears—just utter shock.

"Huh? Who's gone? Kenobi?"

Luke nodded slowly, brow furrowed, as trying to understand the depth of the loss.

"Come on, kid, show a little optimism," Han tried. "We don't know he's dead."

"Yes, I do," Luke answered quietly.

Han laughed shakily. "How could you possibly know that?"

"The Force," was the simple reply.

"The _Force_?" Han's mind shot back abruptly to the strange mind-reading version of dejarik the two of them had been playing in the cantina only a few days ago. "For cryin' out loud, kid—don't tell me you actually buy all that Jedi mind-readin' sithspit," he scoffed. "A whole load of magic tricks and luck is all it—"

The young Corellian broke off mid-sentence as the case on the table abruptly leapt into midair and took itself on a weaving tour of the rec room before settling back down. He turned and found Luke watching him with a challenging spark in his blue eyes. There was a very long and uncomfortable silence.

"My father was a Jedi Knight," Luke finally said quietly. "So was Obi-Wan."

Han blinked. "You're tellin' me that crazy old man was a Jedi Knight?"

Luke nodded gravely.

And all of sudden, it made perfect sense why Kenobi had been so keen to avoid Imperial notice, and why he had ordered Han to keep Luke away from the Empire. If the Empire caught this kid—well, Han could pretty well guess how the story would end.

Fast.

He found himself doubting less and less that the kid might actually know something about what had happened to Kenobi. Which kind of made him a bit sickened, thinking about the old guy lying dead somewhere—sure, he'd been weird, but all around he'd been a pretty decent kind of guy…

Well—if Kenobi was dead, he was dead, and if Luke was wrong, he had no way of knowing, and either way there wasn't anything _they_ could do about it, so they might as well get on with figuring out where he was supposed to be taking Luke.

"Hey—if you want, you could go settle down somewhere for a while," Han offered, doing his best to be sympathetic to the boy's evident grief. "I'll take care of getting this open and stuff, if you'd like to be alone."

Luke nodded, getting slowly to his feet; he vanished into the back of ship, and Han didn't see him again for several hours.

It took him awhile to get the case opened, without any of the passcodes, but the lock wasn't the greatest, and he got it picked eventually. Looking around some at the contents, he could tell that Kenobi must have packed this one, because he didn't recognize anything in it. Mostly it was just a bunch of random stuff—another sealed container with a sophisticated biometric lock, data chips, clothes, a compact training remote…and there (about time!) was a datapad. Almost gingerly he tried to insert one of the data chips…

"Aha!" It clicked in neatly, and the pad powered on to display the chip's information, just like technology was _supposed_ to work. He skimmed through the information on the first chip, but found no address. The same with the second…but the third finally paid off his search. Home Code 56-1138-44B, Antilles City, Kytoa. Simple enough. He read it over once more to memorize it and went to the cockpit to consult the nav computer. Kytoa, Kytoa…there it was. Like you'd expect, given Kenobi's paranoia of the Empire, Kytoa was an outlying planet, even further out than Tatooine. He couldn't get a detailed planetary map now—probably he'd have to get it from the planet transportation department when they arrived in system. But he had the hyperspace coordinates for the place.

First, of course, they would have to complete the current jump. Han only knew three planetary hyperspace coordinates off the top of his head. Of course, he knew what Corellia's were—44-1-22-1-44, one of the easiest ones out there—and every idiot in the galaxy knew the coordinates to Coruscant, 00-0-00-0-00. Due to a rough street life, mixing around with crime lords and smuggling rings, Han had quickly picked up one more—15-6-33-2-75, Nal Hutta and Nar Shadda.

He didn't much _want_ to go gallivanting into Hutt space; but at least he could be sure that the system would not be crawling with Imperials, which was more than he could say for Coruscant. Hopefully they could be in and out of the system without any trouble; all he needed was a few minutes to activate the next jump. He could work out the series he needed before they left hyperspace to save on time.

And hopefully Luke would be in something resembling a normal mood by the time they got to Nal Hutta. If not, well, he'd be dropping Luke off soon at this Kytoa.

_Corellia…_

Darth Vader stood frozen in stunned, utterly impotent fury, staring at the body of his master. And as he watched, even _that_ faded before his eyes. He was left with absolutely nothing.

He could not quite stand to comprehend that the man had managed to rob him of his vengeance. It would not fathom. It was unacceptable. He would not allow it. Such a thing was _impossible_.

But there it was.

He would never now have revenge for the injuries done to him, never seize payment for the hideous betrayal—nor for the man's most recent offense.

A fresh rage swept through him—_curse_ Kenobi, to all nine hells of Corellia and beyond! The pain in his mind launched him out of his stunned stupor—he slashed in mindless wrath at anything that came to hand, hacking great gashes in the wall and floor, shredding what was left of the man's empty robes, seizing up his lightsaber and almost physically tearing it apart—but nothing at hand could satisfy the dragon of his rage. Force, he had never felt so helpless, not even on the operating tables after Mustafar—

His rage quadrupled at the thought of Mustafar. Utterly impotent, seething as he never had before in his life, the dark lord stalked from the construction project.

His men promptly brought the landspeeder down to meet him.

"Lord Va—" That was as far as the officer got before a blood-red plasma blade sliced him into mincemeat; the two stormtroopers followed only seconds after him. His rage the slightest bit placated, Vader found himself sufficiently controlled to fly the speeder back to the Strip, where the crew of the shuttle met precisely the same fate as that of the speeder. He went back up to the _Vindicator_, and by heading straight for the detention block was able to avoid massacring the bridge officers who came to meet him.

When he left the detention block twelve hours later, there was not a single operational probe droid or living prisoner remaining aboard the Star Destroyer. His fury was far from spent—but Kenobi had inflicted plenty of very painful damage on his mind, and he could withstand the pain no more without rest and an effort to heal.


	8. Discoveries

Author's Note: Again, apologies for my lengthy absence…but here's proof that I haven't been idle! I'm sorry if it's a bit too long of an update, which I rather suspect, but it's easier to post all of it at once…so here you are. I'd like to emphasize once more that attention is not really being paid to the EU. If I know something about a character's background, I'll try and stick it in…if not, I'm pretty much just making it up to suit my plot. I know some of you have been wondering where the twins went…well, hopefully you'll be happy with this section. Enjoy! 

_On Vjun…_

The sudden wails jerked Miyr from her sleep in an instant. She had been well conditioned over the past two years to be alert to such sounds—particularly those first several months. But it was rare for her to be awakened in the middle of the night now, and she was quite worried as she rushed across her bedroom and down the hall to the nursery.

Sure enough, the twins were wide awake, and were huddled together whimpering at the head of their bed.

Both sets of big, soft blue eyes leapt up to meet her, wide with fear, and the little girls rushed over to her.

"Sara, Sandra! Shhh! What's the matter?" Miyr reached down to pick both of the two-year-olds up, and carried them over to the bed, settling down with one twin cuddled under each arm. She hugged them both tightly. "What's the matter?" she crooned gently.

But neither Sara nor Sandra seemed able to articulate what the matter was. As best Miyr could understand, it had been some sort of mutual nightmare. They were, however, easily soothed, and soon she had them back asleep.

She sat for a while watching over the two. They were such lovely little girls—tiny to be sure, but darlings, with their matching bright blonde curls and big blue eyes. Such a contrast to their father! Even after two years, Miyr still found it difficult to believe such angels were the daughters of a Sith lord. They were bright, precocious little girls, both of them. They had spirits, certainly, and could be something of a handful when they put their minds to it these days…but that was the extent to which they resembled their father. Discounting, naturally, their growing propensity for odd little tricks—which Vader had wisely thought to warn her about on his last visit to Bast Castle.

That man was gone from here entirely too much, she thought severely. He had not been to see the twins in months—in fact it might be nearly a year now. They had been greatly disappointed that he had missed their birthday.

But the more rational side of her knew that he could not very well help being gone. The man was running an Empire and a Navy—no, he could not very well take many vacations.

And he certainly did his best to make up for it when he was here. There was no doubting that he loved being with his daughters. Miyr knew well enough Vader's reputation throughout the galaxy; yet as harsh and cruel as he was said to be, he treated Sara and Sandra nearly as if they were made of crystal. As far as she saw him with them, at least—usually he preferred to be left alone when with the girls. But she did not doubt that he was no less gentle to them then, for _they_ certainly were not afraid of him. She smiled at that. They were probably the only two people in the galaxy who weren't.

Satisfied that the twins would not awaken again, Miyr left for her own bed.

The next day passed as days usually did at Bast Castle. Miyr had been hired nearly three years ago as a sort of glorified housekeeper for the castle Vader owned on Coruscant; she ran the building in Lord Vader's absence as per his directives, which encompassed quite a broad span of duties—supervising finances, organizing personnel, and in general keeping the place functional. Two years ago, those duties had taken on a much more personal note with the arrival of Sara and Sandra.

She remembered well the day the dark lord had summoned her up to his private chambers on Coruscant.

She had been horribly nervous. She did not generally interact much with the dark lord, other than the occasional, "Yes, my lord." Yet she had been brought up to his _personal_ chambers and all but interrogated for a full three hours, as to her background, her political opinions, her likes and dislikes—any question in the galaxy. She had actually been sweating by the time he stopped, so frightened had she been.

But at length, he stood, and said, "I have a task for you, Miyr." She had understood quite clearly that it must be one of some significance—but when he took her with him to his holdings on Vjun, she had not expected to be introduced to a pair of newborns.

Ever since, she had been the one to care for the little ones, by far the greatest part of her new duties at Bast Castle. She suspected he had hired her expressly because he thought she would be suited to the task. Well, if so, he'd been right.

She could not, of course, be with Sara and Sandra every moment of the day, any more than their father could—but she woke them in the mornings, ate breakfast and dinner with them for the most part, and made sure they got four hours of her time every day at the least. Every so often—three to four times a month, as she could manage it—she would set aside the entire day for the girls. Their delight was well worth the extra hours it took to make the time.

Today was one such day. The three of them were ensconced in the twins' playroom, and had been playing games most of the day, aside from a trip to the castle's indoor gardens. For the most part, Vader preferred the twins kept in the safety of the cordoned uppermost floor, so a venture to the lower levels always excited them to no end. But once they had worn themselves out running around in the gardens, Miyr had brought them back upstairs for a holovid—and predictably, they were now snuggled up on either side of her. Sandra was already asleep, and by the looks of it Sara wasn't far behind her.

Come to think of it, a nap wasn't such a bad idea…

Just as she started to drift off herself, an insistent buzzing started on the other side of the room—it was her comlink, chirping away on the side table. With a yawn, she eased the twins off of her and settled them onto the floor so she could answer it.

"Ma'am?" A confident baritone voice spoke up as soon as she switched it on.

It was Captain Landre—immediately Miyr straightened, totally alert. Landre was the naval officer stationed to command Bast Castle's security forces and communications, the military equivalent of her post. A more competent officer was not to be found in the Imperial Navy; he would not have called without very good reason.

"What is it, Captain?"

"Ma'am, we have received a hail from an incoming Star Destroyer," Landre reported promptly. "Lord Vader is due for arrival within the hour—"

Miyr didn't need to hear another word. She stammered out something to indicate she understood, switched the com off, and dashed to the closet of the playroom, where a nanny droid was waiting. She powered the droid on and ordered it to watch the girls until further notice, and then rushed to her own room to put on something more appropriate for welcoming the master of the estate. She barely had enough time to change and issue an alert to the castle's personnel before Landre called her again to inform her that Vader's shuttle was approaching.

She had best be at the platform to meet him.

…

Darth Vader would have been brooding angrily the whole ride from Corellia to Vjun, if it were not for two reasons.

Firstly, his daughters were waiting ahead—he could not go into the castle without seeing them first thing, for they would know that he was home, and he dared not come near them while enraged. Force, the very thought of it made him sick. He had made that mistake once with someone he loved dearly, and it had cost him the galaxy.

Secondly, he was suffering from the most awful headache he had ever had in his life; it was so painful that it even overwhelmed his anger.

His head was throbbing with such a vengeance that he hardly registered it when the shuttle at last set down on the landing pad at Bast Castle. On every other visit he had made here in the past two years, he had made a point of stretching out with the Force to Sara and Sandra, letting them know he was there, and enjoying their immediate excitement—but he knew better than to try it now. Using the Force might make the injuries worse, and it certainly wouldn't be pleasant.

Had his legs still been flesh and bone, he would probably have stumbled out of the shuttle onto the landing pad, but the prostheses would not permit such indignity, and for once he was glad of them and the armor to keep him standing straight. As it was, the only sign of his poor state was that he walked more slowly than usual.

At the bottom of the landing ramp, standing a respectful distance off, was his castle's caretaker, Miyr, as calm and collected as she always was. His anger abated a little more when he saw her, for she offered him a genuine smile and inclined her head, holding herself easily, just as though she had been expecting his arrival for a month ahead of time, and not a mere thirty minutes. Her competence was forever refreshing.

"Welcome home, my lord," she said as he came up to her, turning to walk alongside him into the castle.

"You seem to have done well with such short notice," he observed, working very hard to ignore the pounding headache.

"I confess I was somewhat surprised to hear of your arrival," she said. That was another reason he had chosen her—she was honest. No conniving and flattering and backstabbing like the politicians and admirals he was normally forced to endure. "I was given to understand you were on Alderaan, my lord."

"Events arose," he said tersely. "I will be here for some several months."

She blinked in surprise. He could hear all the questions she wanted to ask. _Several months? What about the war? Does the Emperor approve?_ To her further credit, she did not voice them. "I am afraid I did not expect you to remain so long," she said carefully. "Will any special adjustments be required to your usual arrangements?"

"I have no immediate requirements," he answered. They arrived at one of the turbolifts and ascended to the topmost floor, where the security guards knew Vader well enough to halt both of them and do biometric identity checks before letting them inside the level. The dark lord viewed nothing as an inconvenience that contributed to the safety of his daughters.

Here, it was at last safe to talk about the things at Bast Castle that actually interested him. "They are well?"

"Quite well indeed," Miyr reported confidently. "Sandra came down slightly sick last week, but it was only for a day. They were sleeping when I left them. I believe I wore them out running around in the gardens."

"Where are they?"

"The playroom, my lord."

He nodded and dismissed her as he entered his private quarters. As soon as the doors hissed shut, he leaned against the wall for a moment, trying to beat down the pain from his headache. Finally, accepting that it was not going to go away, he pushed himself back upright and made his way slowly through his chambers to the playroom tucked towards the back.

As he came up to the door, a small high voice came to his ears—and even though he was angry and hurt and tired, a smile came to him. They could always make him smile…

The moment the door was open, two little blurs tore across the room, as though they had been caught in some kind of magnetic field, and latched onto his boots, bouncing up and down with excitement, squealing with delight.

"Dadda! Dadda!"

He knelt down between them so that he could see them more closely. "Are you surprised?" he rumbled.

Affirmative shrieks and bright smiles answered him—they snuggled up against him, not minding the hard armor at all, Sara twisting herself up in his cape as she always did. He wrapped his arms around them and lifted them up one on either side, and carried them over to the large chair that always was reserved for him when he was here. They settled happily into his lap.

He could feel his black rage over the events on Corellia fading away as he held his precious daughters, stroking their soft curls, feeling the rhythm of their breathing beneath his hands, listening to their excited chatter. It amazed him how their vocabulary had grown since last he had seen them—in fact, how much _they_ had grown in the past several months. Much of the baby fat had left them; their bodies were growing more into proportion, and he could tell how much nimbler and coordinated they had become. He laughed to himself at the thought of the trouble they must be giving Miyr.

They chattered away at him for a full half an hour, occasionally jumping up off his lap to fetch some item for exhibition, whether it was Sandra's latest piece of artwork or the model speeder Sara had put together with Miyr's help. But eventually their energy wore out, and they were content to be cuddled and caressed.

After a while, he winced as one of them reached out shyly and brushed his mind in the Force—it hurt enough that he could not tell which twin it had been. He immediately tried to steel himself, keep the pain contained so as not to alarm them. But he was forced to admit he had underestimated them. A concerned murmur rose from both twins and they turned their gazes up at him before beginning a somber little conference between themselves.

"Dadda's hurt," announced Sara, entirely as though he was not listening.

Sandra nodded in solemn agreement. "Hurt bad?"

"I dunno," the other frowned. She reached out to him again, more carefully than before, and maintained her contact as long as she could manage, watching his mask critically the entire time. "Yeah," she finally decided sorrowfully. "Does it hurt, Dadda?"

"I'll be all right," he reassured them gently; but he had to repeat it a few times before they would believe him.

"How'd you get hurt?" Sara demanded.

He stiffened somewhat, and the twins both frowned again—doubtless they had caught his spike of anger. He stroked them gently to reassure them that he was not angry with them. "I was in a fight," he answered.

_Mistake_. They were already sitting up expectantly, eyes glued to him—very obviously anticipating a story. There was no getting out of it now.

After a very child-friendly version of the battle on Corellia, with several details omitted, carefully rephrased, or reinvented altogether, they got him to regale them with two more of his mildest war stories. By then it was time for their dinner, but they were both in such high spirits, he might as well have tried to get a logical bill passed in the Senate. He decided to concede the battle after he got them to eat five bites apiece.

He had to shake his head at himself. He had managed to destroy the entire Jedi Order, and inspired terror in the entire Navy with the twitch of a finger—but he couldn't compel two little girls to clean their plates. Parenthood was indeed a strange and mystifying experience. And from what he'd heard of it, it was only going to get more so.

They quickly grew tired as the night came on, but neither of them would admit to it. When he announced it was time for bed, both of them protested fiercely in between yawns.

"Uh-uh, Dadda," Sandra objected.

"Don' wanna go to sleep," Sara added. They both made a concerted effort to show just how awake they were, but their earlier energy was long gone.

He picked both of them up, ignoring the complaints. "You are both tired and ready for bed."

"Uh-uh, Dadda, uh-uh…" They kept it up all the way to the nursery, all through being changed into their pajamas, right up until he settled them into their shared bed. Still they would not lie down—they stuck to him like magnets.

"Enough, Sara, Sandra," he finally said. "I will be here in the morning."

"Promise?" they demanded in unison.

"I promise. I will be here for a long visit this time, until I am healthy. Now go to sleep."

Both of them finally settled down; he waited until they were soundly asleep before leaving the nursery.

He wanted nothing more than to go straight to his hyperbaric chamber and collapse. But he had a call to make that had already been neglected far, far too long.

_Nar Shadda, the Nal Hutta system…_

There were few places in the galaxy to which Imperial authority did not extend, and Nal Hutta was not one of them. However, there were plenty of places in the galaxy where that authority was nothing more than a general theory. In the Nal Hutta system, and in Hutt space in general, Imperial officers were humored to their faces rather like senile, cranky old family members, and the rules were freely broken behind their self-important backs. Dogfights were common enough between smugglers and the Imperial Navy, but as long as a lawbreaker kept his hands to himself he could expect to travel through Hutt space without Imperial trouble. Trouble from the _other_ lawbreakers was more to be feared.

But most people coming through Nal Hutta didn't go looking for trouble. Probably the shady traffic in system wasn't going to bother Han's freighter—unless the old crate happened to have belonged to the mortal enemy of somebody, and given the years this sucker had spent rusting Han felt confident that no one was out to fry them.

He'd spent the time in hyperspace plotting the jumps. It was a lot harder than he'd expected it to be—the math wasn't too easy, and his nav computer could have been a lot more dependable. But he was pretty sure he had everything worked out—a series of three jumps should take them cleanly to Kytoa.

When Luke showed up again, looking much calmer, he'd run over the process of making the next jump. And ten minutes later they had dropped back into realspace.

They had to wait at least five minutes to let the engines finish cycling down before they could start the next jump, so the two of them were waiting in the cockpit. Han was leaning forward over the control panels on his elbows, watching the timer, and Luke was curled in the copilot's chair, staring blankly out at Nal Hutta and the Smuggler's Moon. Both of them jumped when the alarm buzzed.

"Okay, kid, here we go," Han announced unnecessarily. "Next stop Bananjur." That was the system where they would switch vectors again.

Luke strapped into his seat and gripped the armrests for extra measure—not a bad idea, seeing how loose his crash webbing was.

Han reached out and flicked a few switches to prep the engines—then pulled the hyperdrive lever, holding his breath…

Nothing.

Well, not _precisely_ nothing. From the rear of the ship they both heard the engines rev up and then weakly throb back down, sounding out of breath. Han swore under his breath as one of the lights on the control panel began to flash red.

Luke pulled himself out of the copilot's seat and surveyed the panel. "Cooling system's blown," he said.

"Yeah, thanks for the update," Han retorted, more snappishly than he meant. It wasn't the kid he was mad at, it was the krethin' ship, and that blasted old man for leaving him to deal with this mess. Why the Force couldn't this crate have waited until the next system to blow its drive? Of all places you _didn't_ want to be stuck…

Han finally shook himself out of it. Being mad wasn't going to fix the ship. He checked his scanners; lucky for them, nothing seemed to be nearby. All the rest of the traffic was closer to the planet and the moon. With any luck they'd be able to get this thing fixed up before somebody shot at them. He reached out and turned on whatever crappy shields the ship had.

"Hey kid, you know anything about repairs?" It was mostly a joke, but Luke surprised him by nodding promptly.

"We were jumping around for a long time, switching ships," he said. "We had to do a lot of repairs."

"Well, let's go see how much you know about cooling systems," Han said, a bit more cheerfully.

But one diagnostic of the faulty hyperdrive was enough to dash any hopes of their being able to fix it. Practically the entire cooling system was shot, and further examination of the hyperdrive itself left them wondering how they'd even managed the first jump out of Corellia. They were left with no choice but to go down to Nar Shadda and try to weasel somebody out of a hyperdrive.

Han didn't much like the idea of taking a kid down to Nar Shadda, not from what he'd heard of it, but leaving Luke by himself on the dilapidated freighter was hardly any better an option, so they brought the ship down to the surface together and did a rapid search for funds. Han was beginning to think they might just have to sell the freighter for scrap and components and hope it was enough to get them passage to Kytoa, but then he remembered the chips Kenobi had given him. Sure enough, the fourth one that he hadn't read before contained the critical information for several separate accounts, coming to a handsome total of nearly a hundred thousand. That ought to be enough to get them a pretty decent hyperdrive.

They left the ship warily. Han had his blaster on beneath his jacket, and Luke was totally enveloped in his desert coat with its big floppy sleeves and hood, sealed all the way down the front, and wearing gloves and boots a couple sizes too large—hopefully people would decide he was some kind of shortish alien, and not a kid. Outside the hangars the streets were lined with cantinas and bars and cabarets and clubs of every kind, plus the occasional nondescript prefab buildings that were probably housing enormous nests of criminals. The thoroughfares were choked with traffic—pedestrians, droids of every model, speeders and bikes and pretty much whatever vehicle you could name. They heard plenty of blasters firing as they hunted for a repair shop.

Finally, after two hours of winding their way through the crowds, they agreed to stop at the safest-looking cantina for something to eat, and found themselves a table at "The Rancor's Den." For Nar Shadda, it was a pretty tame cantina—Luke noted brightly that he'd seen much worse, and Han had to admit it was better than anything he'd expected to find on the notorious Smuggler's Moon. They placed orders with a droid and Han went up to the bar, keeping a careful eye on Luke.

He called the bartender, an overweight Twi'lek with a sickly green hide, and tossed a credit coin on the bar. "You have any idea where we'd find a shop that carries components for a YT-1300?" he asked.

The bartender picked up the money and scrutinized it for a few seconds before pocketing it with a shrug. "None in particular," he said. "But you might try that fella over there." He nodded towards a table.

Han turned and saw a youngish human talking business of some kind with a Rodian—he couldn't tell how tall, but the man was dark-skinned, with a burgeoning moustache and a head of curly black hair.

"He runs some kinda special components business," the bartender continued. "He might have something. I wouldn't expect much if I were you, though, lookin' around for YT-1300 pieces." His expression clearly said what he thought of such an outdated craft as a Corellian YT-1300. Han nodded to him and went back to his table with Luke, and when the droid came by with their food he told it to invite the dark fellow over.

_Vjun…_

Due to his extreme exhaustion, Vader did not awaken so early as was his habit. In fact, he was somewhat disgusted with himself when he realized what time it was. He had not been so lazy since…well, his teenage years at least. And not very much then either. Obi-Wan had always—

His thoughts cut off quickly in cold anger, half of it due to all that Kenobi had done to him and half due to the fact that those memories could still bring a surge of regret—even of longing for what once had been.

He shook anger and remembrances away altogether. The matter was finished. Kenobi was dead. And while he might detest the man even more for that, there was no changing what had happened on Corellia. His old master had paid in the end with his life for all he had done—true, it had not been on Vader's blade as he had desired, but the end result was after all the same. He may as well accept it.

As for the final damage the man had done him…he gingerly flexed his mind, and found that much of the pain from yesterday had already gone. He did not even want to think about using the Force, but that headache was mostly gone. It seemed that sleeping late had done him some good. He was still confident that it would be several months before he was again healthy.

Luckily for him, the Emperor had agreed with his decision.

It had not been a pleasant call last night. For one, there was the fact that he had left first the Alderaan and then the Corellia system without once notifying Coruscant of his movements. For another, he had been laboring under that unholy headache. And lastly—he had had to reveal a weakness he would much rather not have brought so directly to Palpatine's attention. Namely, that his mental defenses could be made vulnerable to devastating attack.

Not the best thing to tell a Sith Master. It was a good thing he was currently assured of his position, or he might have feared for his life. As it was, he would not be safe until the next decade had gone by without Palpatine's discovering a suitable replacement for him. By that time experience would surely have mended his fault. Not that he intended to leave such a glaring weakness to the hands of fate. No other skill would he pursue until he was absolutely sure that no such attack on his mind could again succeed.

He had spent several minutes speaking with his master, explaining himself first of all, describing with reluctant honesty what precisely had occurred on Corellia, and detailing the injury he had suffered. His master had been appropriately alarmed by the grim catalogue of damage, and in the end had endorsed his decision to remain at Bast Castle until such time as he should be healed.

He felt sure there would be no spies sent. His master, having decided that he could not yet dispense with his uniquely powerful apprentice, would therefore be most anxious that said apprentice should not suffer deprivation of his valuable powers for want of adequately peaceful healing. He would be left undisturbed; Palpatine would not inflict stress in the form of spies, or in ordering him back to Coruscant, where both of them would be keenly aware of his momentary vulnerability.

Still, a little extra caution would certainly not hurt. There would be no going downstairs for Sara and Sandra until he left. Perhaps he could take them for joyrides in his starfighter when he felt more confident of his ability to handle any attacks that might occur, but no downstairs.

Speaking of Sara and Sandra…they would surely be wondering where he was. Anxiously wondering, if he knew them at all. He began the process of re-donning his mask and armor.

Half an hour later, he emerged from his hyperbaric sleep chamber, and made his way to the twins' rooms. Miyr was there, trying to get the energetic duo out of pajamas and into proper clothes; she threw up her hands in despair as he entered and the girls immediately scrambled over to him, only half dressed.

"That will be all, Miyr," he rumbled, as Sara and Sandra ducked behind him under his cloak and peeked out around at their caretaker, giggling.

She just shook her head at the girls and walked towards them, handing him the remaining pieces of the outfits she had been trying to assemble. "As you wish, my lord," she answered wryly. "I wish you luck."

It took him another half hour to get them calm enough for dressing. Why was it that though the entire galaxy trembled when he issued a threat, they only laughed and wriggled their way under the bed? Their mother would have done so much better with them. He was certain of it.

But their mother was not here. It was very strange to think that Sara and Sandra's mother had died nearly eleven years before their birth.

And now, as the time drew nearer to Empire Day once more, his thoughts returned with increasing frequency to his lost wife and child. Particularly the child. Although the nightmare was almost entirely gone, it still recurred from time to time, often accompanied now by stranger dreams—again, sometimes a boy, sometimes a girl, features and coloration always changing—of that same child as he or she might have been now. Nearly thirteen, that little one would have been.

Sara shifted suddenly on his lap, where she sat with her sister watching one of their favorite holos. The next minute she was standing up on his leg, and reaching up to his mask with a concerned look. "Don't be sad, Dadda," she implored. She stretched up as far as she could reach, trying to get her arms around his neck.

"Why Dadda sad?" Sandra wanted to know.

He debated whether he should get into any kind of detail, and decided against it. They were too little for stories of such violent grief. Instead, he merely said, "I miss your mother."

"Mamma?" They both liked to hear him describe Padme; it surprised him that he was able to do so for them. He had decided not long after they were born that no secrets would be kept about their birth, and accordingly when they had begun to call Miyr "Mamma" had sat down to tell them about Padme. When next Baranne turned up an image of Padme, he planned to preserve it for the two of them, but until then his descriptions of her would suffice.

"Mamma was very pretty, wasn't she?" Sara asked, though of course she had heard his answer plenty of times before.

"She was very beautiful."

"The most prettiest mamma in the whole galaxy," Sandra affirmed loyally.

"Yes," he agreed gently, hugging them closer.

"But she died," Sara continued the story sorrowfully.

"Yes, many years ago."

"I miss Mamma too," Sandra announced. He laughed despite the strangling ache in his chest.

"You never met your Mamma," he reminded her.

"Well, I miss her anyways." He laughed again and tucked her closer under his cape. Somehow even the most painful of his memories lost their edge when he was with his daughters.

At his belt, his com abruptly began to buzz, and immediately the most doleful expressions imaginable came over the twins' faces. They knew well that when his com went off, it meant he would be leaving.

"I will return," he promised them, lifting them off his lap so he could stand.

Halfway to the door, he paused as a soft effort at a Force suggestion caused his mind to waver a little, and he turned around to fix a curious gaze on the twins. They were still watching him, quite miserably—and if he was not very much mistaken, those two had just unconsciously tried to use a classic mind trick on him to get him to stay!

He could not have been prouder of them. But his com demanded his attention; praise would have to wait. He directed their attention to the holoprojector and went quickly into his chambers.

"Lord Vader," he said tersely into the mike.

"Agent Baranne, my lord," came the response. "I apologize for disrupting your solstice, but I have had further information from my Corellian sources. This line is secure?"

"It is. Continue." He took a seat deliberately.

"My contacts have traced Kenobi to a series of apartments on Corellia. In one of the more recent ones, Kenobi neglected or was unaware of a secondary archival system, which still contained records of his communications over the six months he was in residence there. Most of these are irrelevant local contacts, but we have the dates and times of two interstellar contacts, both directed from the same destination."

"What was the destination?"

"Housing Unit 56-1138-44B, Antilles City, Krytoa," Baranne reported. "I have not received information back about the residents, but I felt this might be of some interest to you."

"It is indeed." Though he racked his brains, Vader could not think of any reason why the name Krytoa should be significant to Obi-Wan. It was not a planet they had been to together, or that he had visited at any time since their meeting. Though he did not know whether the planet had an indigenous race, he could not recall Obi-Wan knowing any Krytoans. It was quite perplexing…

But the planet, if his memory of the galactic map served him, was an Outer Rim world, situated in a particularly remote area. Perhaps some surviving Jedi were encamped on Krytoa?

In any case, he felt it best that the place be immediately dealt with before any alarm could be raised. "You did well to bring this to my attention," he told the agent finally. "Continue your investigations on Corellia. I shall deal with this matter."

"My lord."

Vader immediately ended the contact and sent through a call to the acting flagship of Fifth Fleet and Admiral Drean. The admiral straightened quickly as he saw who had contacted him. "Lord Vader! This is a most welcome surprise."

"You may dispense with the pleasantries, Admiral," he said shortly. "Detach the flag division immediately to the planet Krytoa. Upon arrival your troops are to immediately proceed to Housing Unit 56-1138-44B, Antilles City, Krytoa, and arrest all in residence, whether officially or not. You may use any means necessary, but ensure that none escape. You will forward any prisoners taken to Vjun."

"It shall be done immediately, my lord."

_In Hutt space…_

A shadow fell over Han and Luke's table. They looked up from their plates to see the dark-skinned young man standing in front of them. He flashed them a broad grin from beneath his moustache.

"Lando Calrissian," he announced, swinging a seat over from another table. "I understand you boys wanted to talk business."

Han slid his chair over enough to let the guy sit down. "Lookin' for some components," he explained briefly. "We've got a YT-1300 with a blown drive on our hands."

Calrissian whistled softly. "Buddy, you're probably better off sellin' the thing."

Han laughed. In Nal Hutta? They'd be lucky to scrape one passenger liner ticket out of the thing. If passenger liners even _came_ to this system…

"Look, can you help me or not?"

Calrissian leaned back, stroking the black fuzz on his chin. "Here's the thing. I don't have any way to get my hands on a hyperdrive that old, and even if I could find one it probably wouldn't last you more than one jump. The only way you can probably fix your ship is if you gut the systems and rebuild 'em."

Han shook his head slowly. He was pretty sure he didn't have the money for that…

"How functional are the rest of your systems?"

Han rubbed the scar on his chin glumly. "Well, leavin' out the hyperdrive and the nav unit and the scanners, everything reads operational."

Calrissian sat up straighter. "What's the problem with your scanners?"

"Well, nothin's wrong with the actual _scanners_," Han amended. "Problem is the stupid things are so pre-Clone Wars they use hull map ID, and of course _now_ all the battle shields block laser mapping—"

"Hold on—you said you have hull ID scanners? And they _work_?"

Han nodded slowly, totally freaked out by the kiddish excitement on the guy's face.

"Pre-Clone Wars—what's the model?"

Luke promptly rattled off the model number of the scanners, and Calrissian looked like he was about to explode out of his seat and start bouncing off the roof. Han's hand drifted unconsciously toward his blaster…

"Buddy—ah—what's your name?" Calrissian said excitably.

"Han Solo," Han said reluctantly, tossing a glance at the nearby window to see if it was a viable escape hatch.

"Well, Han Solo, I'll make you a deal," Calrissian said. "As it so happens, one of the crime lords on Nal Hutta collects classic and antique war equipment on the side. He buys a lot from me, and I can tell you he'd be delighted to pick up those scanners of yours—you don't find many that are still functional—"

"Perfect," Han said quickly. "We'll go find him." Force knew, they'd get better value going straight to the guy himself instead of this wacked-out middle man—

"Hey, hey, hold on a second!" Calrissian tossed up his hands. "For one, I obviously know better than you what those babies are worth; you'll get more this way. Second, I can arrange to get your ship revamped."

Han perked up immediately. "Run that by me again?"

"What I was going to say was, you give me those scanners. In return, I'll give you a high-performance hyperdrive I have in stock—and for an extra fee, I'll have your freighter's systems updated."

Han shared a glance with Luke, who raised his eyebrows beneath the big hood. "Just how high-performance are we talkin'?"

Calrissian leaned in close. "A Sienar Beta drive," he whispered.

Han jerked back in shock. Sienar Systems was not the galaxy's biggest shipyards—Kuat came first, Corellia second—but it was the most successful, for every single one of His Majesty's warships came from them. From TIE fighter to the brand new Super Star Destroyer, every craft in the Navy bore the Sienar stamp, and so did all their hyperdrives, which gave the best size-to-power ratios in the galaxy.

And of all the hyperdrives Sienar Systems produced, the fastest was the Beta-class drive, designed for light hyper-capable starcraft like shuttles and multi-man snub fighters.

He would be a complete idiot to turn down a Beta drive—if it was real, and if he could get his hands on it without losing life, limb, or starship.

"Buddy," he said severely, "you are gonna have to prove that, and I mean but good."

"Of course I'll give you proof," Calrissian reassured him. "If you'll accompany me to my warehouse I'll show you the drive, I'll run diagnostics on it for you—anything you like. It's real and it's functional—straight out of the yards, never been used."

Force—this was just too good to be true.

"What kinda fee are we talking?" Han said, switching back to the question of renovating the ship.

Calrissian frowned. "Well, your wiring is probably all good enough to work with, if your sublight engines still can run the systems. I'd say a rough minimal estimate would be twenty-seven to thirty thousand. Of course, your ship will have to be appraised before I can say for certain."

Well, he had that hundred thousand in the old man's accounts. And with this kind of a deal, you really couldn't make a better investment with it. The ship could always be sold afterwards at profit.

"How long do you figure that revamp would take?" He definitely needed to get Luke to this Kytoa as quick as he could—for sure inside a month.

"No more than four days," Calrissian promised. "It's not like it'll involve all that much rebuilding—just some installation work."

Luke nodded his eyes at Han, and he shrugged, tossing some credit coins on the table to cover their tab. "Okay. Let's go see this drive of yours."

_In Antilles City…_

In this part of the planet, there wasn't really all that much difference between Tatooine and Krytoa. Both were basically desert. Krytoa was more of a hard-baked sort of desert, flat and rocky, and not as hot as Tatooine, but it was no less a desert, and there were several moisture farming communities roundabouts. Owen and Beru Lars slipped right into the pattern, discounting a bit of fumbling at the start.

And also discounting the startling absence of a certain blond mop of hair.

Owen had been startled by how much he missed Luke once they resumed a somewhat normal home life. Beru at least had anticipated how much she would miss her nephew, but all the expectation in the galaxy didn't make it any easier to deal with him being gone. It was so quiet without that boy in their house.

She was in the kitchen of their little home just now, and often over the last two years when she cooked in here she would be reminded of Luke—usually when she found herself baking something he had particularly liked. It was hard to believe she hadn't seen him for two whole years. How big he must be getting! She sighed as she stirred away at a soup pot on the heating pad.

They didn't hear much from Kenobi, save for notifications every now and then to reassure them that the two were safe, wherever safe might be. Certainly not enough to satisfy Beru's maternal tendencies towards their nephew—

She jumped as the com station in the kitchen buzzed, and very nearly dropped her spoon into the soup. Truth be told, they didn't hear much from _anyone_, not just Obi-Wan, which was why she'd been so startled. Generally the only reason they got a call was if Owen had gone out into a town for something or other and was letting her know he was on his way home. But Owen was home, working out on a vaporator. And this was their secure communication link, besides, for which only Obi-Wan had the number.

"Hello?" she said warily when she got to it at last, fearing the worst.

The projector activated, displaying a person she couldn't recognize to save her life—finely dressed, dark-haired. Certainly nobody from Krytoa, whoever she was. And definitely not Obi-Wan.

"Is this the Lars residence?" the woman asked quickly.

She wasn't sure if she should answer or not, but something told her it was best she did. "Yes," she answered carefully.

The woman visibly relaxed. "Is your line secure?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Good. My name is Elle. I…I have some unfortunate news."

"Unfortunate?" Beru whispered.

Elle nodded. "Yes, I'm afraid so. We…we have a mutual friend who gave me this number and asked that I deliver a message from him."

When Owen came in an hour later for dinner, he found his wife sitting numbly at the kitchen table, staring at the wall.

"Beru?" he asked, his irritation at the dysfunctional vaporator immediately vanishing. "Beru, what is it?"

"I…I got a call today," she said slowly. "On the secure line."

Owen stiffened.

"They were found," she continued numbly. "There—there is an important delivery coming here."

Owen rushed to sit beside her. "Then it's just fine," he said soothingly. "That means Luke is on his way here—he's safe."

She shook her head, beginning to cry. "No—no—he's not—he's in terrible danger—Force, he could be dead right _now_!" Her voice rose into a despairing shriek.

"It's going to be fine," Owen reassured her, rubbing her shoulders. "As soon as he gets here, we'll be ready to go and find somewhere else—we'll move for as long as we have to, whatever it takes to keep him safe. We'll all go with Obi-Wan this time." Curse his stepbrother for putting them all in this mess in the first place, he thought darkly—but there was no changing what had happened.

"Owen—it wasn't Obi-Wan who called," she sobbed. "It was someone else he gave the number to—a woman, I didn't know her. It wasn't Obi-Wan!"

Owen's reasonableness began to fade immediately. There couldn't be many reasons why Obi-Wan would be unable to contact them personally. "Did she say anything else?" he asked carefully.

Beru settled back, wiping her eyes, trying to calm down. "Nothing else," she sighed. "Except that we should call her when our delivery arrives."

Owen could feel his stomach turning with apprehension. It seemed clear enough that Luke and Obi-Wan had been separated; if Kenobi had been coming to Krytoa with their nephew, there would have been no need to risk communication.

"Come on," he said finally. "We need to be ready to go at a moment's notice."

It didn't take them more than a couple of hours to pack all of their necessities. The next week was a taut one. Beru was continually fussing at the house, cleaning things that she'd scrubbed to a polish three times already, and when she could think of nothing else to clean would wear away the pavement in the kitchen with pacing until an imaginary spot of scum or film presented itself. Owen soon spent as much time as possible outside the house, trying to distract himself by working on the vaporators, but nothing could hold his attention for long. There was no further preparation they could make—only wait helplessly and hope that their nephew would arrive safely.

Six days after they had received the alarming call, the two of them were sitting at the table trying to eat the results of Beru's stressed culinary efforts when a violent explosion rocked their little house.

Beru shrieked—Owen bolted out of his chair and seized his old blast rifle from the cabinet. His first two shots ripped through the secure com unit, blasting it into shrapnel. Then he rushed in the direction of the explosion, leaving Beru trembling in the kitchen corner.

All of Owen's worst fears were confirmed when he saw white-armored troops pouring through the smoking front door.

…

The desert homestead was just barely a blip on his scopes, only a couple of klicks away from the other local houses. Captain Soontir Fel certainly couldn't see anything remarkable about the place as he swept his TIE fighter in wide arcs around the standard patrolling radius of twelve kilometers, scanners alert for any vehicles trying to escape from the Imperial cordon around the house. But Soontir Fel had been serving with the Fighting 501st long enough to know a few things about the commander of his fleet.

The first was that you never, ever went against Darth Vader's orders. The second was that in the end, he was generally right. The third was that the man could outfly anybody in the galaxy, but that was beside the point.

The point was, if Darth Vader said this place needed to be taken out, Soontir Fel for one was going to do what he could to make sure that happened. For the most part, this mess was a ground operation, the priority of the army, but a couple of fighters were needed overhead to keep a sharp eye, so he had volunteered himself and another 501ster for the job.

His visual scanners claimed that down below the strike teams had entered the house, as evidenced by the rising smoke from where they had blown their way through, and his scanners were corroborated by the ongoing com chatter.

"Put down the blaster!" the squadron commander's voice crackled over the speakers. There was a pause and the general sound of activity. "Hands up, Rebel!"

"I'm not a Rebel!" a voice protested distantly. Soontir snorted as he adjusted the curve of his flight path.

"Sure you're not," the commander sneered, voicing the TIE pilot's thoughts precisely. "Hands up!" The Rebel must have complied, for there was another flurry of activity sounds. "You, search the house for other occupants!"

A few minutes later, as the fighter swung back towards the north side of its loop, his scanners picked up the soldiers emerging from the building, dragging two prisoners. "Ground to _Vindicator_," the commander addressed the ships overhead. "Building has been searched and we have taken both residents, one male and one female. Commencing interrogation."

Soontir shook his head disdainfully. He wouldn't stick himself down in the army if they paid him a million a month. He much preferred the clean, black-and-white realm of piloting his starfighter—his job was to shoot, plain and simple, and not get himself shot in the process. None of this arrest and investigation nonsense…

Shots and shouts suddenly rang out of the speakers—he quickly focused back in on the visual screen, and saw to his dismay that one of the prisoners had pulled a handgun and started shooting at random. Or maybe not at random, he quickly amended—the man dropped several of the troopers before a soldier finally nailed him cleanly in the back. Somewhere in there the other prisoner was screaming, terrified—but then the screams abruptly sliced off, with unmistakable finality.

"_Vindicator_ to ground," Admiral Drean demanded over the com. "What is your status?"

A subordinate quickly answered. "Firefight, Black One," the lieutenant reported. "Prisoners attempted attack and were incapacitated."

"Are they alive?" the admiral pressed.

There was a silence. "We lost the woman," the lieutenant finally responded. "Our medic is stabilizing the man. He's in critical condition."

Soontir scowled. Vader would be most unhappy if they lost both.

"Get him up to the ship med bay as quickly as possible," Admiral Drean ordered from the bridge. "Search the building for any information. Black One, we are sending another shuttle down to the site. Stand by."

"Yes, sir," Soontir reported snappily. "Black One standing by. You catch that, Celchu?"

"Yes, sir," came a quick answer from the TIE on the opposite side of the patrol loop. "Standing by." Tycho Celchu was one of the 501st's freshest pilots, just out of Academy—this was a good breaking-in mission to take him one. And so far, he hadn't missed a beat.

Nor did the youngster slip up even a little when the shuttle arrived from overhead—Soontir let him handle the challenge and ID confirmation, which Celchu managed with the ease of a much more practiced pilot. Promising, that kid. Even if he _was_ from Alderaan.

"Black One, our shuttle is on the ground," a bridge officer reported over his com. "Continue to stand by."

"Yes, sir," Soontir sighed, continuing the TIE around its monotonous circle.

…

The landing ramp extended swiftly down onto the baked desert of southern Krytoa, and Agent Baranne winced as the heat wave hit him. He kept on down nonetheless, which was as well, because in another moment the medics rushed up the ramp bearing the wounded prisoner on a stretcher and he would have been run over by them in their haste.

Ahead of him a modest home stretched languidly on the desert plateau, the rising smoke the only sign of the recent drama until he came around to the front and saw the milling troops and the sprawled body of the woman who had been struck in the firefight. He shook his head dolefully. What had the man been thinking to pull that pocket blaster? Surely he hadn't believed he could win?

Until they had the man stabilized and on the mend, Baranne would however be forcibly confined to speculation. It would be a better use of his time to search the house along with the troops. Hopefully he would find some further clues as to why Kenobi should have had any connections to this place.

The first thing to catch his eye in the little dwelling was the blasted-out com unit in the kitchen—he immediately ordered it removed to the Star Destroyer overhead for examination. Obviously the residents had tried to hide sensitive information—possibly related to Kenobi. They had done their best to wreck the thing, but his intelligence team might yet be able to recover information from its memory systems.

There was not much else of interest in the home. He was about to leave when he glimpsed one of the soldiers dully scanning through a file of images from one of the handful of datachips recovered.

"Back that up," he ordered the man sharply. The soldier flipped back through the images, until the one that had caught the agent's attention was back.

It seemed to be a sort of family portrait. He quickly recognized the man and woman as the two prisoners—but what had seized his interest was the young boy also in the picture. Baranne took the data reader from the soldier and began skimming through the images. Sure enough, the boy turned up several times, at varying stages of maturity—ranging from infancy to perhaps ten years of age. The newest of them was almost three years old.

So—the couple had had a child. Yet there were no signs in the home that a young teenager lived there.

Baranne's eyes narrowed, his brow furrowed. Perhaps the boy had died, or had been sent to school elsewhere. If there was some such innocent explanation for his absence, it would be easy to discover. And if nothing could be found…well, in that case, he would turn his attention on the matter.

But the first priorities now were the continuing investigation on Corellia, and interrogating the man when he stabilized.

_The dark world of Vjun…_

The past several days had done much to ease Darth Vader's anger. Withdrawn from official business as he was, and unable to train or improve his Force skills, he had had nothing to distract him from spending the majority of his time with Sara and Sandra. And it was utterly impossible to be around them so long without their bright, cheerful spirits having a rapid effect on his own mood.

By now their initial euphoria had settled, at least to levels he supposed were normal for two-year-olds. In the main part, they were content to let him occupy his chair pensively and play between themselves nearby. He would watch them, and think quietly of how fortunate he was to have them. To think of the depths of his misery three years ago, bereft of any hope and drowning in insurmountable guilt…they were nothing less than his little saviors. He didn't know what he would do without these two angels.

K'do had never been able to figure out how there had come to be two girls instead of one, despite spending a solid year of research on it. Vader attributed it to the will of the Force. It could really be nothing else.

And besides that, they seemed to be having a bit of therapeutic effect on his ravaged mind. He could now use the Force to a small extent—no more than a few seconds at a time, and not very many times in a day. But it at least allowed him to touch his daughters' minds, and they could touch him without it being too painful. Sara's motherly concern for him was much eased by these facts.

He smiled now as she clambered up onto his lap to give him another checkup. Starting from the first day Sara had taken it upon herself to monitor his progress towards health—she regularly would settle herself down gravely on his knees and carefully check his mind's injuries.

"How is you now, Dadda?" she asked him somberly once she was settled.

"Better already," he gave his standard answer. Unless he reported progress, her concern would skyrocket and she would take to following at his heels wherever she could, constantly asking whether or not he should go to a doctor.

She nodded, pleased with the answer, and reached to pick up his wrist. "Still hurts?" she asked.

"Not as bad as before," he dodged. She nodded, not looking up from his wrist. He smiled again beneath his mask as he watched her studious imitation of the monthly checkup she and her sister received. Of course, she did not know the point of feeling his wrist was to check the pulse, and understood even less that there was no pulse to find in the bionic limb.

From his wrist, she moved on to tapping his knees—fortunately the prosthetic did react to the stimulus as a normal limb would, or else there would have been cause for immediate worry. She finished her little regimen by leaning against his chest plate and listening to his breathing. Assured that his respirator was working flawlessly, she pronounced his progress satisfactory and bounced back down to the floor to resume playing.

He stood after watching her for a few moments and went over to the corner of the room, where Sandra was drowsing on a cushion. Kneeling beside her, he held his hand against her forehead for a moment. She had awoken this morning with a mild fever, and had been napping most of the day. He knew it was not cause for alarm.

Her condition in general worried him, though. Sandra was very prone to such minor illnesses—but Sara had not contracted so much as a cold since the two of them were born. The doctor he kept here for them claimed it was because Sandra had gone unnoticed for the first part of her development, therefore receiving less nutrition. Hence Sara was stronger.

Having an explanation, though, did not make him any less concerned for his daughter's health. For now she was sleeping soundly, which was the best thing for her fever. He stroked her hair gently before going back to lively Sara, who was busy playing the little engineer with a pile of snap-together blocks in all sizes and shapes.

Just now Sara was trying to cobble together a crude version of a TIE fighter. He swept her up into his lap, basking in her giggles, and settled down to build it with her. Just as he was helping her put the finishing touches on the model, the com screen on the wall switched on.

It was Miyr. "Lord Vader?" she asked softly.

He set Sara down on the floor with the fighter to distract her. "What is it?"

"My lord, one of your agents has contacted the castle from Krytoa. He requests a brief conference with you—if it is convenient."

"Reroute him to my private conference suite," he ordered. "I will speak with him." He cut the connection. It went without saying that Miyr was to come immediately up to the twins while he conducted his business with Baranne. He activated one of the nanny droids to see to them until she arrived, checked once more on Sandra, and went into his private quarters.

Baranne was waiting on his holoscreen when he arrived and stepped into the reception area. "My lord," the agent nodded. "Thank you for hearing me on such short notice."

"Proceed," he said shortly.

Baranne nodded again. "We have carried out our strike on the housing unit I specified in our last conversation," he continued. "Two prisoners were initially taken captive from the residence. Unfortunately, in the course of investigation afterwards, one of them initiated a firefight with a hidden blaster; four of our men were wounded, one fatally. One of the prisoners was also killed by a stray shot. The other is currently in critical condition aboard the _Vindicator_."

Vader scowled. "How critical?"

Baranne looked the tiniest bit nervous. "Extremely," he admitted. "The medics are not sure he will survive. At the moment I am told he is in emergency operation."

He drew his rein in sharply on his temper. Baranne was too valuable to lose to a fit of emotion. "Have you identified them?" he demanded.

"Yes, my lord. Owen and Beru Lars, initially of Tatooine."

Vader stiffened. His stepbrother? Why would Kenobi be in contact with his stepbrother? It made no sense. "Have you uncovered anything else?"

Baranne nodded, flipping through one of his dossiers. "A damaged secure com module was recovered from the house," he continued. "My specialists are working to recover its memory now. There was only one other anomaly I noted. Some of the files found in the house contained images of a boy with the Larses. There were enough of them, over a long enough spread of years, that I feel sure the child is their son. However, the house gave no indication of a third resident."

"Perhaps they anticipated the strike and hid the boy?" Vader mused thoughtfully.

"I doubt it, my lord," Baranne said. "There was only one bedroom in the house. Furthermore, each image was dated. They begin at infancy and stop approximately three years ago. I thought it was possible the boy was dead, but I found no indication of any such event in the items and data recovered from the home."

Vader leaned back thoughtfully. Perhaps Kenobi's connection to the Larses centered around the boy? "You do not have a name for him?"

"He does not appear anywhere else in the data I have recovered," Baranne shook his head. "There is no mention of a child, even in files dating from the same period as the images. I currently have contacts tracing the couple's presence on Tatooine. Information may perhaps be uncovered there."

Vader nodded. "Is there any other information?"

"Not as yet, my lord."

"You will inform me of any developments in the status of the prisoner you took," the dark lord decided. "Continue your investigation."

"My lord."

Vader cut the connection and sat for a while in his chair, pondering this strange turn of events which had brought his stepbrother back to his mind. He'd forgotten about Owen Lars…

Still, from what he knew of the man, he didn't seem the kind to leave his moisture farm on Tatooine. And he could think of no reason in the galaxy why Lars should be in contact with Kenobi…

Unless the child should happen to be Force sensitive? Ah—that made sense. Kenobi might well have hidden a Jedi child with the Larses. Perhaps he had later reclaimed the boy as an apprentice, and thus there were no images from the last three years…

In which case, where was the apprentice? His eyes narrowed. The last thing he needed was a renegade Jedi apprentice running around the galaxy right now. The brat would have all the time he needed to melt back into the masses while the dark lord was recovering and could not give chase.

Of course, he reminded himself, it was still only a speculation that an apprentice even existed. His irritation eased a little. Accepting that for now the matter was in the hands of his agents, he stood to leave.

But just as he reached the door the unit reactivated. It was Baranne again. "My apologies, my lord," he said, with an unusual expression of resignation. "I'm afraid we have a development."

Vader gave a world-weary sigh which the vocabulator did not recognize.

"You lost the prisoner."

Baranne spread his hands. "Apparently there was nothing the medics could do. He collapsed under the shock of the operation. If they had not proceeded, the injury would have killed him. I apologize, my lord."

He waved a hand dismissively. "Continue the investigation." Baranne could hardly be blamed for the actions of troops not under his command. The work would have to proceed without the benefit of whatever Owen Lars might have known. The man's death was, in the end, inconsequential.

Still, there was a strange sort of ache in his chest as he left the conference suite.

_The hangars of Nar Shadda…_

Han was impressed despite himself. Calrissian's workers had stripped out the freighter's old systems and installed the hyperdrive and modern equipment in three days flat—and at a pretty fair price, too, thirty-seven thousand. More than Calrissian's "estimate," of course, but that was a given.

And a Sienar beta drive! Han was nearly woozy with delight every time he thought of it. It was indeed genuine, and in flawless condition. Shoot, the Imperial seal had even still been on the packaging. Brand new, and latest generation to boot! He couldn't believe there hadn't been a catch.

"I can't believe there's no catch," Luke muttered from beside him. They were both standing over the new hyperdrive, basking in the mechanical magnificence of the thing.

"Well, keep your eyes open," Han conceded, "but once we get down there and pay off this Lando guy, we're home free for Kytoa."

Luke frowned as he followed Han from the hold down the boarding ramp, where Calrissian was waiting with that polished grin of his. Han just pulled a battered envelope out of his pocket and tossed it at the guy. "Enjoy," he said dryly.

Calrissian took the credit chip out of the envelope for examination, and stuck it into a reader. Finally he nodded. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Han Solo," he said, sticking a hand out. Han shook it a bit reluctantly.

_When you shake a hand, you should mean it, son…_ The old man's words from their first meeting ran softly through his head—involuntarily Han tightened his grip and nodded firmly at Calrissian. "See you," he said.

"See you too, kid," Lando called to Luke, who was standing close at the base of the ramp. The boy just nodded—but suddenly he jerked up straight, and shouted something Han didn't hear, because at the same instant he noticed the armed aliens boiling through the hangar entrance, raising their blasters.

He whipped out his blaster quickly and began reeling off answering shots, trying to raise smoke if nothing else—but they were quickly overwhelming him with return fire, there were too many of them—he found someone grabbing his hand and dragging back up into the ship.

It was Luke, who of the three of them seemed to be the only one who'd kept his sense—he'd gotten Calrissian onto the freighter too. Already the kid was shouting at them to come to the cockpit, and finally Han's mind cleared. He reached the cockpit just as Luke finished switching on the engines and quickly lifted the freighter clear of the hangar.

But the fun wasn't over yet. All of his brand new scanners were speckled with incoming ships, and suddenly the saucer-shaped ship lurched as a cannon laser grazed its hull.

"Calrissian, make yourself useful and get on the cannon!" Han shouted over his shoulder. Beside him Luke was feverishly punching coordinates for their planned jump to Bananjur—but the kid heard him first and pushed Calrissian into the copilot's chair in his place while he ran to the cannon.

A minute later, though, he had yet to fire the thing. "What are you waiting for, kid?" Han shouted at him through the com. "Peg those guys!"

"There's too much civilian traffic!" Luke objected. Which was true—Han was swerving and looping wildly through the atmospheric and orbital traffic around Nar Shadda in a desperate effort to throw the pursuit at least a little.

"Kid, this is Hutt space! Shoot, will ya?"

Luke saw his point—a second later their cannon sang return fire.

For several seconds tensions ran high—then Han crowed in delight as his scanners blinked. "Good shot, Luke!" He'd nailed one of the fighters in the engines, sending the small craft spiraling down planetside.

His jubilation was short-lived when another shot slammed into the freighter, setting lights to flashing on his control panels and an alarm to shrieking. "Hurry that up, Lando, my shields are going!" he bellowed at his copilot.

"Got it!" Calrissian yelped.

Han lunged for the lever—and smooth as Corellian whiskey, the freighter shot into hyper.

All three of them slumped back in their seats with sighs of relief. "Who was _that_?" Luke wondered aloud.

Han turned in his seat to glare at Calrissian. "Anyone we know?" he snapped.

Calrissian threw up his hands. "Yeah, they were after me," he sighed. "Thanks for getting me on here."

"You can save the thanks until I know what's going on," Han retorted. "There any particular reason they chose my ship as the ideal location to shoot at you?"

Calrissian pursed his lips reluctantly. "Maybe they heard about your hyperdrive," he tried.

Han stood up, leaning with raised fist over the guy. "What's the deal with the hyperdrive?" he snarled.

"Ahhh…it might have been liberated from a previous owner, or something like that…"

Luke ground his head into the back of the seat. "I _told_ you there had to be a catch," he groaned.

"You tellin' me you stole that thing from another dealer?" Han said in disbelief. "And ditched it on us?"

"Ah…you might be hitting close."

"Kreth!" Han swore viciously in Huttese, stomping back and forth across the cockpit's confines. "So you got those cretins after _us_ now?" he snarled at length. "Thanks, Calrissian. You know what? I'll leave your thank-you note in the airlock."

"Hey, hey, give me a chance here!" Calrissian yelped. "I thought you two would be out of system before they got a clue!"

"Well, I guess you thought wrong, huh?" Han's hand was on his blaster, his fingers twitching. "How about you tell us who 'they' are?"

"Just your average component runners," Calrissian said. "Blackmarketers like the rest of them."

Han drew the blaster and aimed it squarely for Calrissian's chin. "Mind takin' a guess about where these average component runners picked up armed spacecraft and ground troops?" he hissed. Luke straightened in his seat in alarm.

"T-they're hired by one of the Hutts," Calrissian stammered. "Jabba."

Great. Just sithin' great. In utter rage and disgust, Han switched the blaster setting to stun and pulled the trigger. Calrissian collapsed out of the chair.

Luke climbed out of his chair, brandishing a hydrospanner and wearing a scowl. "Cool off," he snapped at Han. "Shooting him isn't gonna fix anything. I don't know what you're so mad about anyway."

"Kid, we got Jabba the freakin' Hutt on us now!" Han burst out. "You know who he is, right?"

Luke rolled his eyes. "I used to live on Tatooine."

"And you're askin' me why I'm mad?" Han shook his head and reholstered his blaster.

"Hey—you got a brand new Beta drive, a revamped ship, and an extra crew member for free," Luke shrugged. "And we made it out of system. Just mess around with the drive signatures a little if you think they can track us."

Han stopped to consider. The kid was actually pretty much right. But still…

"It's the principle of the thing," he muttered irritably.

Luke burst out laughing as he headed out of the cockpit.

"What?" Han demanded. "What's so funny?"

"You—principles—" was as far as he got before collapsing into laughter.

"Hey! I have principles! _Hey_!"

_Vjun…_

The afternoon several days later found the dark master of the castle once again pacing back and forth in front of his conference suite projector, waiting for Baranne's call to be put through. There had been no word from the agent since he had notified Vader of Owen Lars' death, and the dark lord admitted he was anxious to know if there had been any significant progress in the investigation—particularly when it came to the enigmatic figure of the boy…

The projector abruptly came to life, and the agent's face materialized in front of him. "My lord," Baranne gave his customary greeting.

"What news?" Vader demanded.

"We have uncovered some…well, some very interesting information from Corellia and Tatooine regarding recent incidents," Baranne continued. "My contacts on Corellia have affirmed that a boy was seen with Kenobi in Coronet. Those of my informants who saw him firsthand described him as similar to the images I transmitted from the house on Krytoa."

It _was_ an apprentice, then—precisely as he had conjectured.

"We have combed all the planets for him, but I suspect he has already left Corellia," Baranne continued. "He has certainly had more than enough time to escape the system." Vader agreed darkly.

"As for Tatooine…the Lars family previously owned a moisture farm in the province of Mos Eisley. According to the information gathered from neighboring homesteads, the Larses disappeared from their farm not quite three years ago. When shown images of the boy, neighbors were able to identify him as the couple's nephew."

A convenient cover, the dark lord mused, and one that would not have been difficult for locals to accept when Kenobi brought the child in.

"Do we have a name yet?" Vader rumbled. Likely the name would not be of much use—it was probably false to begin with, and if the Padawan had any sense he had already abandoned it, perhaps even as far back as Tatooine. But one never knew…

"Yes, my lord. Luke Skywalker."


	9. A Mistake Well Made

Author's Note: Thanks for all those reviews! I apologize for leaving you on a bit of a cliffhanger last time, but I figure this way you're sure to come back and read again…So, without further ado, here's your next little bit. There'd be more, but I decided on some rewriting at the last minute, so here's what I've got for you so far.

_Aboard a certain freighter_…

Lando had been in friendlier situations, he supposed—but all things considered, this one could be a lot worse. That Solo kid had settled down some by now. Apparently shooting him with a stun blast had taken some of the anger out of the Corellian's system. And Solo's short copilot wasn't half bad for a kid.

Solo was in the back now, tinkering at his new systems. With nothing else to do, Lando had asked the kid what games he knew.

So here he was, playing dejarik with a kid whose name he still didn't know, en route to the Emperor knew where on a nameless battered old ship, with no idea of where the next few days would take him.

"Krakana to G9," the kid announced abruptly, tapping at his control panel. Lando scowled at the situation _that_ left the board in. He wasn't much hand at this dejarik mess, but the kid sure was. Lando was beginning to think he might need medical attention for his rear end before this little venture was over.

"Where'd you get so good at this?" he demanded sourly.

He was surprised to see a shadow come over the youngster's face. The boy stared into the distance for a few minutes before shaking himself out of his daze. "I just practiced a lot," he mumbled. "Your move."

Lando leaned back and looked at the kid. "What's your name, anyway?"

He looked up sharply. Man, but that kid had some intense eyes. "Luke," he answered.

"Luke what?"

"Your move," Luke repeated, ignoring the question. Lando shrugged and turned his attention back to board. The kid might be young, but he seemed to know a thing or two when it came to street sense.

In fact, he probably had more street sense than Lando had dejarik sense, as the board reminded him. With a sigh, he moved one of his monsters to destroy Luke's piranha beetle—which left his krayt dragon wide open to Luke's lurking vaapad. "Should've moved your rancor," Luke chided as he finished the game. Lando frowned at the game table, and smacked his forehead as he spotted the move that would have saved his hide.

"You're way ahead me on this game, Luke," the erstwhile special components dealer groaned.

They sat in silence for a while. Finally Lando spoke up again. "So where are we going?"

"Bananjur."

"What's on Bananjur?"

Luke shrugged. "We're just switching vectors."

"So where after Bananjur?"

"Teer. Then Kytoa."

"So we're going to Kytoa?" Luke nodded. "Well, what's on Kytoa?"

"We're meeting some people."

"Alright, alright," Lando muttered, "I won't push." Obviously the boy would rather not spread information. He sure was a sharp youngster. "So, are you two brothers or something?"

No answer. He could tell that line of questioning was dead too.

"Well, how old are you?"

"Almost thirteen."

"Thirteen, huh?" That was a bit older than he'd expected. He was getting ready to ask another question, but Luke jumped out of his seat and was out of the rec room before he could say anything.

Sith, but it was going to be a long ride. He hoped these two would let him off at Bananjur.

…

"Almost to Bananjur," Han announced several hours later. "Strap your lousy self in, Calrissian." Lando scowled, but strapped on his crash webbing. In the copilot chair, Luke followed suit. If you asked Lando (which neither of them had) the kid might as well leave it off, it was so outsized for him…

Solo reached out and drew back on the hyperspace lever. The starlines shrank quickly back into pinpoints as the freighter decelerated, and ahead through the viewport the planet Bananjur rapidly swelled into view.

"Well," Solo said happily, "seems like your drive works well enough so far, Calriss—holy Sith!"

The freighter jolted again crazily and sirens set off all through the cockpit, accompanied by warning lights.

"Incoming!" Luke shouted, pointing at the scanners. "Star Destroyer!" Sure enough, there was an _Imperial_-class warship floating towards them, with its tractor beam homed in on the ship.

"Kreth!" Solo swore venomously in Huttese and fired up the shields as fast as he could—in the middle of the melee the com system abruptly woke up.

"Unidentified freighter, this is His Majesty's Warship _Judicator. _State your identity and purpose in system," an officer intoned over the comlink. "Failure to comply will result in your arrest. Repeat, unidentified freighter…"

Han seized the com desperately. "We copy, we copy!"

"State your identity and purpose in system," the officer repeated sternly.

"Ah, we are the independent merchant freighter, ah…" Han racked his brain desperately, glanced around the cockpit, and seized the first two words that came to mind. "The _Millennium Falcon_."

There was a pause. "Your purpose in system?"

"We're, ah, changing hyperspace vectors." That was innocent enough, wasn't it?

Again, a strained pause. "_Millennium Falcon_, I do not find a match for your ship in our archives. Transmit your shipboard identification."

Han scrambled through his pocket for the chips and the flimsy printout of the title deed. Hastily he changed the name on the deed, loaded it into his computer, and beamed it out to the Destroyer. "Identification en route, _Judicator_," he stammered.

There was a very, very long pause. Han swore he could the blood pounding in every vein of his body.

"Identification confirmed, _Millennium Falcon_," the officer finally said. "Next time check the travel manifests so you don't schedule a jump into the middle of an Imperial blockade."

"Yes, sir," Han breathed. "Sorry, sir."

"Get the kreth out of system," the officer sighed. The tractor beam switched off—Han punched the coordinates in feverishly and yanked the lever back. Thankfully, the freighter shot smoothly into hyperspace.

"Force, that was close," Han breathed, slumping back into his seat.

"The _Millennium Falcon_?" Luke demanded. "Where in the galaxy did _that_ come from?"

Han shrugged. "I think it was in a song that was on earlier."

"That's probably the stupidest ship name in the galaxy."

"Hey, they bought it!"

"I'm with Luke on that one," Lando chimed in.

"Calrissian, shut up."

_Aboard His Majesty's Warship _Vindicator_…_

"Mr. Baranne?" The agent looked up from his data reader screen. One of the tech specialists was at the door.

"Yes?"

The tech came forward and handed him a data chip. "We were able to extract a few message fragments from the destroyed communications module," he announced. "I have restored them as best as possible and placed them on this for your convenience."

"Thank you, Lieutenant," Baranne nodded, taking the chip. "Will this be all the data you can retrieve?"

The tech nodded. "The rest of the memory was lost. Profile data for the module is also recorded on the chip."

Baranne nodded and dismissed the tech. He popped the chip into his data reader and began examining the message fragments, starting with the most recent.

The projector lit up with the image of a woman, and Baranne jumped in his seat. Force, for a moment he'd thought it was none other than Padme Amidala! He froze the image and scrutinized it more closely. No, it was not Padme Amidala—he'd certainly seen enough images of the former Senator to know that. Suspiciously, he ordered the recording to play again.

"…od. My name…Elle. I…some unfortunate news."

Elle? Excitement flashed through the agent's mind. As he had suspected, the woman was indeed one of the late Padme Amidala's look-alike handmaids.

"…a mutual friend who gave me…asked that I deliver a message from him. An important delivery is en…" The woman's image flickered out again—there was no more.

En route—he was sure that was how the sentence had ended. So—the Larses were connected to Kenobi, who Baranne felt certain was the mutual friend who had been mentioned by this woman Elle, former handmaiden and bodyguard to Padme Amidala.

So how did all this fit together? The boy, the dead Jedi master, the handmaiden, the moisture farmers…what had drawn them into this intrigue? What intrigue was it?

Baranne leaned thoughtfully back in his chair. Perhaps his employer would have a better understanding of it than he did. It was time to place another call to Bast Castle.

_The planet of Vjun…_

The sun was rising up from behind the ocean, out the great library viewport, but the magnificent vista could not distract Vader from his pacing and pondering.

_Luke Skywalker, Luke Skywalker, Luke Skywalker_…The name had been singing through his head ever since Baranne first spoke it, taunting him with all it might or might not mean. So distraught was Vader that he was unable to even consider going to sleep the entire night. He had put his daughters to bed early and spent the dark hours pacing in the library, trying to calm his whirling mind, organize his thoughts.

Luke Skywalker, the name of the missing boy—the boy who would now be nearly thirteen by the dates of the images, exactly the right age…dear Force, it could not be! It could not! He had _seen_ the funeral procession on Naboo—in fact he had forced himself to watch Padme's funeral procession over and over, reaffirming every time her still-swollen belly. It was impossible—he had concrete evidence that it was impossible!

Perhaps Kenobi had just given the apprentice that name, to pass him as the Larses' nephew more accurately. Yes—that was it, that must be what had happened.

But why the _Force_ would Kenobi choose _that_ name of all names? There were dozens of childless moisture farmers across Tatooine to choose from, surely—there was no reason he should deliberately select the only ones with a connection to a dark lord of the Sith! It was stupid of him, thick, senseless—borderline suicidal, in fact—anything but characteristic of the shrewd, subtle man he had once known.

_I must find him_, was the only thing he could decide on. The boy _had_ to be found, _had_ to be brought here to Bast Castle so he could touch the child, look him in the eye, examine him, test his genetic data—reaffirm the foundations of his life for the past thirteen years. Because if their child had lived, it must mean—would mean that—

He shrank back from what that would mean. It was too dangerous to even contemplate. Too much emotion, too much upheaval—too much relief...

His comlink went off at his belt. It was again Miyr, summoning him up to his conference suite for another discussion with Baranne. He went quickly. Perhaps the agent had turned up something that would erase all these painful conjectures.

"My lord, we have retrieved some message fragments from the secure communications module found in the house on Krytoa," Baranne began. "I could not determine a date for the message, but it did not come from Kenobi." He clicked an image up on the screen—Vader actually started in his seat. Force—he'd nearly thought it was—

"The recording gives her name as Elle," Baranne continued. "It's very disjointed, so I'll summarize for you. I ran image and voice confirmation to verify that she is indeed Elle Edarie, former handmaiden to the individual whose records you hired me to collect. In the recording, she states that a 'mutual friend' has asked her to deliver the message that an important delivery is en route. Presumably, my lord, this mutual friend would be Kenobi. I have no conjectures as to the nature of the delivery. There was no date, however, so the message could be up to several years old."

"Do you know the origin of the message?" he demanded.

"No, my lord. It is a secure transmission, as I noted. No origin could be discovered."

Vader stared at the screen helplessly. "Do you have any other new information?"

"I have had more information from Corellia, yes," Baranne continued. "Eyewitnesses have confirmed that Kenobi purchased a ship a few hours before you arrived in system, my lord. We do not have any records for the craft, which departed system the same day Kenobi purchased it, but it is most likely a Corellian YT series freighter. Unfortunately neither of those narrows the search parameters significantly."

Vader nodded, agreeing distantly. Thousands upon thousands of ships came in and out of Corellia on a daily basis; and the Corellian YT series ships were the most popular small-scale business craft in the galaxy. Every corporation, large and small, had one of the things to its name. Without specific information, it would be all but impossible to find the one Kenobi had purchased.

But not totally impossible. He _had_ to find that boy—now more than ever, with Elle's involvement in the matter.

"Continue the investigation," he ordered finally. "Focus on that boy. I want him found as quickly as possible. Inform Admiral Drean to regroup with the Fleet. We have no further business in Krytoa."

Baranne nodded—Vader cut the transmission to resume his pacing, even more disturbed than he had been before this communiqué. Now Elle was involved, pointing back to—he forced himself to think it—to Padme. This new information, far from alleviating his distress, had brought added speed and confusion to the whirling emotion and thoughts, had dragged him even closer to the most dangerous, haunting ghosts of his past.

He sank back down into his chair, switching on the images in the files. The most recent picture of the boy who had brought him all this violent emotion appeared on the projector at actual size. Small, blond as he had been—but it was the eyes that dragged him away from reason every time he looked at them. No matter how he tried to reassure himself with the memory of Padme's appearance at her funeral or with conjecturings, there was no denying that _those were his eyes_. Force, it was like looking into history's mirror.

He sat for hours, staring at the images, but no answers would come. No matter what other evidence Baranne managed to turn up, he knew there could be no absolution until he met this mysterious boy in person. He would search as best he could from Bast Castle until he was strong again—and if the boy had not been found by then, he would hunt for the child himself.

_Somewhere in hyperspace…_

All three passengers aboard the haphazardly-christened _Millennium Falcon_ breathed a huge sigh of relief when they slipped through the Teer system totally without incident. Lando had thought about lobbying to be let off the ship then and there, but he'd taken advantage of the shipboard encyclopedia to see what might be there. And a good thing he had, too. There wasn't much of anything beyond a couple of down-on-their-luck mining companies. So he'd settled back for the ride to Kytoa, which looked more promising from its file.

"Strap your—"

"—lousy self in, I know," Lando finished irritably. Solo shot a glare at him over the top of his seat; Lando sighed and reached for the crash webbing again.

"Well, kid," Han said to Luke, "here goes nothin'." He drew back on the hyperspace lever easily, and the ship dropped into sublight as smooth as you please.

"There she is," Han observed. "Kytoa. Now, Antilles City, wasn't it?" He pulled the data reader out of his pocket and popped the chip in. "Yep, Antilles City… Housing Unit 56-1138-44B. Hey, Luke, see if you can pick up the planetary net yet."

"Yeah, it's reading," Luke told him from the communications console.

"Go ahead and upload the address. It should give you the coordinates."

They spent a few peaceful minutes cruising towards the planet, waiting for the results from the net. After a while, Luke frowned at the screen. "Sorry, it mixed up," he said. "Let me try it again." There was another short wait.

Finally Luke looked up sharply. "It's not reading the address," he said in confusion.

"Huh? Ah, scoot over, lemme try it." Han and Luke switched seats and Lando leaned back and twiddled his thumbs while they tried again.

"This is weird," Han finally murmured. "It keeps tellin' me that the address isn't in the system. How the kreth did that old man expect us to find an address that's not listed?"

"Try just asking for Antilles City," Lando suggested. Han shrugged and punched buttons again. Sure enough…

"It ain't here," he said in disbelief. "There isn't an Antilles City here!"

Luke's eyes narrowed. "Where's the datapad?" he demanded. Han handed it to him.

"Gah!" Luke tossed it back at him and slumped into the pilot's seat. "Nice going."

"What?"

"It says _Krytoa_, you nerf herder! Not Kytoa!"

"It does not," Han denied. "I read it over twice to make sure!" He grabbed the datapad—and soon smacked his forehead with a groan. "Sith."

Lando was trying pretty hard not to keel over laughing. Instead he said, "Well, let's go ahead and look up Krytoa."

Han leaned glumly back over the control panels and entered the correct system name into the nav computer. When the map pointed it out relative to their position, both he and Luke groaned again—_Kry_toa was clear on the opposite side of the galaxy from _Ky_toa.

"This sucks," Luke announced point-blank.

"You can say that again," Han agreed.

"Should take about a week," Lando surmised. "Hey, here's a bright idea—how about we check the travel manifests this time?"

He had to duck to the floor to avoid being hit in the head by the datapad.

_One week later…_

"Again? No way this could happen again!"

Han stared in morbid disbelief at his scanners. They had just entered the Krytoa system—and according to his sensors, the system was all but _crawling_ with Imperials.

Lando leaned over Han's shoulder to look at the readouts. "You _did_ check the manifests, right?"

"Yes, I checked!" Han snarled. "There was nothing out for Krytoa!"

"Two Star Destroyers and four corvettes," Luke said softly.

"That's a full division," Lando murmured. "What in the galaxy are they doing here?"

"I dunno, but I ain't stickin' around to find out," Han answered grimly. "Plug me in some coordinates."

"Wait," Luke said. "They're going into formation." All three of them leaned back over the screen.

"Hey," Han said after a moment, "it almost looks like they're leavin'—"

Sure enough, the screen blinked—all the threatening warships vanished smoothly into hyperspace.

"Well, that's convenient," Lando shrugged, strapping himself back into the navigator's chair.

Han shook his head. "Guess it's about time we got lucky," he decided. "Plug that address into the planetary net, kid."

In no time, the computer spat back the appropriate vector. Han set the ship into the proper approach, and a few minutes later they were sweeping across a baked desert landscape, passing houses every few klicks. "Ain't much here, is there?" Han frowned.

"Coming up," Lando announced. "Probably you can set down on that plateau."

"Yeah, looks flat enough." Carefully Han cut the engines and settled the ship down on her landing gear. Outside the cockpit viewport, the three of them could see a low-lying house, surrounded by nothing but vaporators.

"Well," Han shrugged, "let's go see if that uncle and aunt of yours are roundabouts."

They were out of the ship and halfway to the house when Luke suddenly broke into a dead run. Han and Lando shared a glance and trotted after him around the corner of the building…

"Holy Sith…" Han murmured. The front entrance had been blasted out by somebody or other—fragments of it lay in charred ruin around the rocky ground. Luke stood frozen before it for a moment longer before forging on into the house.

"I got a real bad feeling about this," Lando muttered.

Inside the damage was evident, although the place hadn't quite been ransacked. There were traces of blaster shots around the door and in the kitchen a whole corner was charred and burned out. All the information systems in the house had had their memories removed, sometimes forcibly. The power cells had been blasted too.

Han found Luke after a few minutes curled up in one of the chairs at the kitchen table, staring at the wall silently. "Hey, kid, you okay?" he asked, feeling clumsy again.

Luke looked up at him, tears glittering in his eyes. "Where am I supposed to go now?" he asked softly.

"Look, Luke…" Han sat down in the other chair and scooted it up alongside the kid. "I dunno what happened here, and I dunno where your aunt and uncle are. But the worst turns up—well—well, I got a ship now, and she needs a copilot. So if you wanna stay with me, we'll—ah, Sith, I ain't sure what we'll do, but I'll try, anyhow."

Luke fixed a strange look on him. "You don't have to take care of me," he said.

"Yeah, I know." Han gave him a lopsided grin. "But we get along okay, don't we?"

"Yeah, we do."

…

They walked over to one of the neighboring farmhouses to ask about what might have happened at the Lars home. A portly farmwife answered their knocks on the front door.

"Hello, ma'am," Han began awkwardly, sticking his fingers in his belt and trying to look presentable. "We're friends of the Larses. Do you know where they might have gone?"

The woman paled. "The house off that way?" she answered. "Young man, you're best off forgetting you ever knew them." She started to close the door, but Han grabbed the edge with his hand.

"Please, ma'am—can you at least tell us what happened?"

"The Empire," she said shortly. "I don't know about you, but I don't stick my nose into Imperial business if I can avoid it." She started to slam the door again—but suddenly her eyes came to rest on Luke.

"You," she breathed. The next second her finger was pointed at him. "You're the boy in those pictures they kept showing us!"

Luke started backwards, but the woman came quickly out of the house after him. "They're looking for you," she burst out. "They went to all the houses around here to ask if anyone had seen you."

"Did they say why they wanted him?" Han asked quickly.

She turned to him. "They found his picture in the Larses' house when they raided it last week," she breathed. "They thought he was a relative."

Luke abruptly spoke up. "Please, do you know what happened to them?"

The woman moved back to her door, almost trembling. "Dead," she said. "They were shot."

Han gripped Luke's shoulder to steady him.

"I should turn you in," the woman whispered.

Han stiffened, fingers resting on his blaster…

"If you're smart you'll get out of Krytoa now," she breathed finally, backing into her house. "I won't speak up, but if they come asking again, don't expect me to hide you. I have children."

Han slowly let go of the blaster as the woman retreated into her house and closed the door. "Come on, let's get out of here," he said heavily.

_Later, aboard the Falcon…_

"Well, kid, we got some thinkin' to do," Han announced. The two of them were seated at the game table in the rec room while Lando tried to cook something or other in the galley.

"Guess so," Luke agreed softly. They were several hours away from Krytoa now, almost a day—enough that the kid seemed to be coming to terms with this latest loss and thinking ahead.

"For starters, just how recent were the pictures they mighta gotten of ya?"

Luke shook his head. "Almost three years old." He remembered once wanting to send his aunt and uncle a picture of him, and Obi-Wan had quickly shot that idea down, saying it would be too dangerous. It looked like he'd been right.

"Well, that's good. All the same I figure we oughta change your appearance a little, like maybe dye your hair brown."

Luke nodded, wondering how he might look with dark hair.

"And probably we better drop that last name of yours to be on the safe side," Han continued.

"No!" Luke jerked upright, eyes ablaze.

"Hey, hey, I didn't mean permanently!" Han objected. "Just I think we should call you somethin' else around other people in case the Empire got your name from somewhere."

"Like what?" Luke said testily.

"We'll make it easy and pretend we're brothers, huh?" Han offered. "How's that? Anyhow, it's not like there's anything real special about a name, is there?"

"It is for me," Luke said quietly. He didn't feel yet like telling Han anything about his father. "But Solo's okay, I guess."

Han rolled his eyes. "Glad you approve."

"So what are we gonna do?" Luke asked after a short pause.

"About what?"

"Well, everything," Luke shrugged. "Where are we going?"

Han shrugged. "I told Lando to just plug in whatever coordinates for wherever he wanted to go as long as it wasn't occupied by the Empire. I think maybe it's Alderaan."

"You gonna get a job or something?" Luke asked a bit timidly.

Han frowned. "Yeah, I suppose I probably should. And I guess you oughta go to school or something."

"Haven't been in school for years," Luke shrugged. "I'm used to learning at home."

Han shifted in his seat. "Well, we don't have to decide right off. We still have some money from that old—ah, from Kenobi—that we can use till we figure somethin' out. Let's just see how Alderaan goes."

"Okay."


	10. Coincidences

Author's Note: Well, that wasn't so long, was it?  Hope you will enjoy this followup. Thank you for all the encouraging reviews…keep 'em coming, they're an author's favorite candy…Anyhow, here you go.

_Six months later, on the galaxy's most populated planet…_

"Welcome home, my friend. I trust your sojourn was restful?"

"It was indeed, my master." Oh, it most certainly had been restful—Darth Vader would certainly not have returned to Coruscant if he had not been absolutely sure there was no remaining weakness from his injuries on Corellia.

The Emperor favored him with a sickly grin. "Excellent."

Vader would have heaved a sigh of relief if the respirator would have permitted it. His relationship with his master always entailed a certain degree of uncertainty, even in the best of circumstances; he had feared this latest episode might leave it balancing on a high wire. But his master seemed as relieved as he that his momentary vulnerability had come and gone. The regular rules of the game, which they both understood, were again in force. The tension, rather than being increased, seemed actually to be at its lowest for the past ten years.

"Well, my friend, I am sure your business with the Fleet has accumulated over your absence. I shall not detain you from it any longer."

Vader bowed and strode from the throne room, glad that the mask hid his sour expression. Force, the very idea of how much he was going to be slaving to catch up…and as if regular work would not be enough to occupy his hours, he had also to deal with the issue of that boy.

His lips twisted into a snarl of frustration as he wound his way out of Imperial Palace to the private hangar bay where his shuttle awaited him. Six months, and not a single sign of the blasted Padawan! Even Baranne had not been able to turn up any more information useful for tracing the boy. He had dredged the databanks of Tatooine to the bottom, sifted through all the birth records of every registered facility in the galaxy—and could find neither hide nor hair of a Luke Skywalker. What information he had discovered since, had been discovered by interrogating the Tatooine locals. Thanks to them, they knew that the boy had attended the local primary school for five years, that he had loved flying…most disturbingly, that he had spoken often with a Biggs Darklighter on the subject of his deceased father Anakin Skywalker.

Though none of this helped Vader to hunt the boy, it certainly helped to increase his anxiety and emotional discord.

All across the galaxy, Imperial ships were detaining YT-series freighters, examining their crews and owners, scouring the hyperspace lanes for a blond thirteen-year-old who resembled an outdated picture. Already dozens of unfortunate children had been shipped to Bast Castle for his examination—but there had been no Force-sensitives among them, and he had ordered all returned to wherever they'd come from. Well, excepting two, one retrieved from a slave ship and the other being wanted by Alderaan Security for theft…

Warships were even venturing into Hutt space, but in the process of detainment they were encountering so many criminals and expensive dogfights that their searches were of doubtful efficiency. At Baranne's suggestion, the dark lord had recently declared a massive bounty on both freighter and child, but it would be at least a month before he began to see results from that ploy. Bounty hunters had been hired several months ago, as well, with the notorious Boba Fett being the foremost of them, but they had yet to turn up anything.

Chaos take it all! Where _was_ the boy?

…

"Han, where in the heck are we?" Luke sighed, flipping through the projected city map on his datapad.

Han just shook his head, turning around slowly. "Well, that blasted map of yours says we're on Aldray Avenue."

"Aldray Avenue runs clear from Southern Underground to the Manarai District!" Luke snapped irritably. "That's practically across the whole continent!"

"Hey, blame Lando, not me," Han snorted. "He's the one who gave the directions."

"What's he want us to do, walk the whole length of it till we find the place?"

"Probably he figured we'd put it into the planetary system and find the address."

"We've been over that," Luke groaned. "You have to pay by account to use to system, which means you have to give your bank information, which means they'll link you up to the ship, which means we'll both get snapped up by stormtroopers before you can say Millennium Falcon."

"Gimme a break already, kid," Han growled. "It's not that bad a name."

"Yes, it is. It's senseless."

"Is not."

"Is too!"

"Is not…"

But for all the bantering, Luke was absolutely right. The Empire's cross reference network would indeed immediately match his name with ownership of the _Millennium Falcon_—and since they had slipped into system hiding in another, larger ship's shadow to avoid being detained, the network would raise an alert in seconds that an unauthorized ship was on Coruscant. He'd have a stormtrooper platoon on their tail inside five minutes—and worse, he'd never be able to get out of system.

As long as they didn't raise any kind of alert, it wasn't that dangerous to bring Luke here to the center of the Empire. Three and a half years older than the Empire's most recent picture of him, with his hair dyed the same shade of brown as Han's and green contact lenses, Luke looked nothing like the boy the Imperials were hunting.

However, they would be much safer to wander the galaxy freely if Luke could get a convincing fake ID created for him. And at this point, Lando Calrissian had actually come to the rescue—he had referred them to the best ID forgers in the galaxy, who reputedly would be able to create medical, educational, and all other files for the newly invented Luke Solo and register him in the Imperial and Corellian databases. Han hoped there was enough of Kenobi's money left to pay for it.

But, of course, the biggest catch was that in order for these people to be the galaxy's best ID forgers, they had to have easy access to the Imperial databases, and that meant going to Coruscant. So here they were, with no more information than that the people they were looking for were located in the top floor of the Baer'bal First Tower on Aldray Avenue. It had taken some doing just to find Aldray Avenue without daring to use the planetary information systems—but as for finding a _single building_ on a street that practically ran halfway around the planet…

It took them four hours, but finally they ran into a being that did, in fact, have a vague idea where Baer'bal First Tower might happen to be. They stole onto the next public transport easily enough and rode the shuttles northward. When they disembarked at the platform the being had given them, both of them grew a little uneasy—only a few kilometers away the boys could see the distinctive outlines of the galaxy's two most famous buildings, the Senate Rotunda and Imperial Palace.

They were right at the edge of Imperial City, the cornerstone of the Galactic Empire.

"Relax, kid," Han told Luke, rather shaky himself. "Let's just go find this tower."

They weren't far, as it turned out—Baer'bal First Tower ended up being a block closer to Imperial City on the other side of the vast avenue. On the top floor, Han cautiously pushed the intercom and asked for the name Lando had given him, expecting something fatal to happen every instant. But in just a few moments they were directed to one of the apartments.

It was a large apartment, owned by a wealthy and very shrewd Falleen. The two quickly learned his wealth came from just such unfortunates as themselves—and indeed, he cleaned them out of sixty thousand credits for the task of creating Luke Solo.

"Come back tonight," he said shortly, once they had paid sixty percent down in cold credits withdrawn before they came to Coruscant. "I'll be done by twenty-two hundred hours. Go on, see the sights for a few hours."

They found themselves standing aimlessly back on the bustling walkways of Aldray Avenue, staring at the kiosks and billboards for ideas.

"What about the Galactic Museum?" Luke said abruptly. "It says they're opening a new Clone Wars gallery today."

Han shook his head. He was thinking more along the lines of heading down towards the surface and finding a couple of good bars or cantinas. Obviously, he couldn't take Luke down there, so he'd have to scratch that plan, but that didn't mean he had to go to the sithin' Galactic Museum instead…

Hey…wait a sec…

"How about this," Han finally decided. "I'll run you over to the Museum, and you can look around there for a few hours, and I can go find some sabacc or something, and we can meet back up at the Museum at…ah, say eight." He figured you couldn't find a much safer place to leave a kid than the Galactic Museum. There were sure to be dozens of field trips and such from schools, plenty of bigwigs and their security people there for opening the new gallery…with a good-sized crowd like that, Luke would blend in easy and be as safe as a Wookiee in a tree.

Luke perked up. "Sounds good."

"Now once I take you there, you better stay there until I come back," Han warned. "You for sure better not go gallivantin' off around Imperial City."

Luke nodded seriously. "I won't," he said—and Han knew he meant it. The kid might have a bold streak, but he had plenty of common sense too.

"Right. Let's catch a shuttle."

…

Darth Vader scowled blackly beneath the mask as he swept his gaze across the new gallery. In a fit of warrior's nostalgia, he had agreed to the curator's request that he be on hand for the opening of the Galactic Museum's Clone Wars gallery. Though he'd derived some momentary amusement from going around before the gallery was opened to the public and viewing the historical plaques recording the events of battles in which he'd fought, the polite standing around with fellow VIPs afterwards had hours ago made him sincerely regret his decision.

But it had been made, and now he was compelled to spend at least another hour here before he could beat a retreat. Force, he was so sick of talking flattering nonsense with all these celebrated officials…desperately he cast a side glance into an adjoining weaponry display room in search of someone more interesting to speak with.

He would have raised his eyebrows, had he had any left—the room seemed to be mostly empty, except for a brown-haired boy quietly circling a display case. It was the one containing a lightsaber; the boy was studying it with immense curiosity. Well, at least this would give him an opportunity to speak about something he actually had an interest in…

He broke away from the gaggle of quacking museum patrons and made his way to the boy. For a moment the young man remained unaware of him, so focused was he on examining the lightsaber. But then he froze, and an instant later jerked his head up with an expression of the utmost alarm.

"You seem to find this rather interesting, young one," the dark lord rumbled from a careful distance.

"Ah—I—yes, I s-suppose…" The boy trailed off almost incoherently, backing up a step.

"What do you think of it?" Vader asked him, gesturing to the case, his eyes on the boy in what he hoped translated as a friendly way.

"It's—I, I like it," he finally got out, a bit more easily than before. "It's very—very graceful."

"It is an adequate example of the weapon," Vader said critically, turning his gaze back on the lightsaber on its stand. It did indeed have a very artistic appearance, constructed along a gentle curve, very smooth, decorated with carefully engraved patterns. "It is rather too artistic to function for many of the lightsaber forms used by the Jedi."

"Is it?" The boy looked up at him briefly, curiosity slowly joining the alarm in his bright green eyes.

He nodded, directing the boy's attention to the case. "The handle is too smooth for the Ataro or Djem-So forms, which require a great deal of dexterous grip changes. Neither would it be suited to the Shien form, which requires the fighter to make powerful blocks."

"What form is it—is it good for?"

"Most likely its owner intended it for the Makashi form, which relies primarily on light parrying. Have you ever seen traditional Alderaan fencing?"

The boy nodded. "Once on—on the holo."

"Makashi would appear quite similar to that."

Not willing to drop the conversation there and be relegated back to the sycophantic company of the exalted guests of the curator, Vader took his own lightsaber from his belt. "Do you see how this one is different?"

The boy had started when he reached for the lightsaber, but settled back down into his previous controlled state of alarm when he saw the dark lord did not intend to take his head off with it. "It's blockier," he said.

"What about the grip?" Vader pressed, extending the weapon with the activation plate towards himself.

The boy edged closer, very warily. He jumped again when Vader set the hilt into his hand. "You may look, but do not activate it," he warned.

The boy nodded and turned the hilt over slowly. "It doesn't slip," he announced after wrapping his smaller hand around the grip. He looked up again. "What is it made of? The grip, I mean."

"Prexlyne," Vader answered. "You may have seen it in walkways or on stairs."

The boy nodded with an air of realization. "What color is it?" he asked a bit shyly, handing the hilt back.

"Red, due to the crystal used. They can produce many colors; blue and green are most common, but I have seen purple and orange as well."

"Does that gauge change intensity or length?" the boy asked, pointing to a control set into the base.

"Intensity."

The boy nodded once again, shifting uneasily on his feet. "It's very nice," he said.

Vader returned the weapon to his belt. "Have you seen much of the gallery?" he asked.

The boy nodded. "Most of it," he said. His gaze flickered off Vader for a moment to the other wing of the gallery. "I like the ships the best."

Vader was not surprised. "They have a good selection," he agreed. "Did you have a favorite?"

The boy hesitated. "The—the Jedi starfighter," he admitted. Vader understood why he would be reluctant to voice that.

"It is also my favorite," he announced. "I once flew them. Their agility was remarkable given the period."

"Did you fly in the war?" the boy asked him.

"I did." Vader decided it might be best to end the conversation before pressing on into that ground. Besides, he had ignored the prestigious company long enough, and further such behavior might be perceived as an insult, and the last thing he felt like was apologizing to indignant politicos who enjoyed his master's favor and thus were untouchable. "Enjoy the gallery, young man."

…

As soon as Vader had left, a badly shaken Luke fled the Clone Wars gallery, fled deep into the opposite side of the museum into a band of schoolkids wandering en masse around the xenobiology exhibits. He tried desperately to ward off an after-attack of panic, but soon he had to dodge into a 'fresher and lock himself into a stall, because he was starting to shudder all over and hyperventilate. It took fifteen minutes before he could compose himself again, and it was all he could do in the meantime to keep his presence blocked in the Force.

Force, Force…he had been so close to losing control back there, when the Sith lord appeared out of nowhere, towering over him—so close to losing all of his shields and revealing himself for a Force-sensitive. So close to _dying_. Because if Darth Vader ever got hold of him, Luke had no illusions about his fate—he would go the way of every other Jedi, the way of Obi-Wan, felled by a clean blow of a lightsaber. Or maybe a shot through the back of the head in the Imperial prisons.

Just thinking about it started him shaking and breathing hard again. He wanted Han to come back _now_, right _now_, wanted to get off Coruscant as fast as he could and fly clear out into the Unknown Regions. But it was not yet seven in the night—he had another hour before he could meet Han again at the entrance, which meant he had to stay here at the Museum—in the same building with Darth Vader, the man who had killed all of the Jedi, probably including his own father.

If he'd known this was how adventure felt, he'd never, ever have wanted one.

…

Han was a few minutes late trotting up the grand staircase outside the Galactic Museum, where he'd promised to meet Luke, but he figured the kid would have gotten engrossed in that Clone Wars gallery and would probably be running late too.

Except he wasn't—he was waiting behind a pillar, tucked back into the shadows, and as soon as he saw Han his face took on a look of visible relief. "Can we go please?" he pleaded almost in a whisper. "Please, we gotta go now."

"Take it easy, kid, we're goin'," Han said, frowning as they started back down the stairs. "Sheesh, what's got you so touchy?"

Luke wouldn't answer him until they were on a shuttle back out of Imperial City. "I—Vader was in the gallery," he finally whispered.

Han laughed shakily. "That ain't funny, kid—"

"Sithin' right it wasn't!" Luke retorted sharply. Han did a double-take. It was totally unlike the kid to swear—he must be really, really on edge to snap like that.

Which meant he was probably telling the truth.

_Oh, holy freakin' Sith…_

"Look, he was just there cause they're openin' that new gallery," Han tried to reassure him. "I'm sure he didn't notice you—kreth, he might not even'a seen you—"

"He came _right freakin' up _to me and started a _conversation_," Luke hissed beneath his breath.

Han felt his heart skip a beat. "Why'd he do that?" he whispered hoarsely.

"I don't know." Luke leaned back against the wall of the shuttle, staring out the window on the opposite side. "I mean, he didn't just say hello, he was telling me about combat forms and giving me _his_ lightsaber to look at!"

"Did he ask your name?"

Luke shook his head.

Han blew out a breath. "Well, that's somethin'. So—he didn't act all suspicious or anything?"

"I don't think so," Luke said slowly, thinking back on the terrifying encounter. "I—I don't think he recognized me. I mean, not like he's ever seen me before, but I suppose he's seen the pictures at least."

"Well, kid, you don't look anything like those," Han reassured him. "If that's all he's got to look with, I betcha you're just fine. Heck, maybe he was just bored or somethin'."

Luke breathed in deep. "Maybe."

"We still got a couple hours before we head back to the tower," Han said, checking his chrono. "How about we go get you somethin' to eat? I got lucky in sabacc, so it's on me."

"Sounds good."

…

Vader's relief was inexpressible when he was able to politely extricate himself from the goings-on at the museum and escape via shuttle back to his castle. There might be work aplenty waiting on him, but at least he could see to it in peace.

And see to it in peace he did until about fifteen minutes after ten, which was when his screen lit up with a security officer.

"My lord, you asked to be alerted to any possible Rebel activity on Coruscant?" the officer prefaced.

"I did." Some days it seemed nobody was sufficiently concerned about the Rebellion save himself, which meant if anyone was going to be vigilant about keeping the Rebels off Coruscant it would have to be him. Which did not, of course, in any way decrease his anger towards the apathetic planetary officials who were putting him in this position…

"My lord, our undercover officers in the North Aldray District have conducted a sting operation and nabbed an identification forger with access to the Imperial databases. I suspect he may have Rebel involvement based on his records."

Vader considered for a moment. "Bring all your captives to my castle," he ordered. "I will interrogate them myself." It would be a productive break from paperwork.

…

"Luke, we officially have the galaxy's worst luck," Han growled, slumping against the cell wall.

Luke fired a glare at the ID forger, who looked supremely annoyed. "Thanks a million."

"Hey," said the forger, "it happens in this line of work. Not my fault you came back in time to get arrested."

"Yeah," Han agreed. "I for one plan on blaming Lando."

"Once we get out of prison, right?" Luke scowled.

"Eh, what's the worst we're gonna get? We ain't the ones doin' the forgin', that's Gorgeous over there."

The forger scowled at them both.

"I figure we'll get a year at worst. And I mean absolute top-notch worst. Generally I don't think you get more'n six months. Plus you're a kid, they'll probably take it easy on you."

"I'll remember that," Luke muttered darkly. "And I'm not a kid."

"Yeah, well, don't tell them that, huh?"

In the pause, the prison shuttle abruptly lurched, slowing down—then a thud jolted all three of them as the craft set down. "Here we go," Han sighed. Sure enough, the door to the containment room hissed open and the guards marched in. All of them were filed out of the ship in their manacles, into a pretty nondescript hangar, and across the hangar to a door that Han supposed would lead into a prison corridor or processing office of some sort.

He was therefore surprised to find himself being marched a broad, open hallway, well lit and lined with office doors, from which civilian aides and uniformed officers were constantly emerging. On down the hall they went, drawing occasional glances—which Han thought was pretty odd, considering this was a prison. What did these people expect to see if not prisoners?

They reached a bank of turbolifts and went up, clear to the third to topmost floor, which didn't seem to Han like a convenient way to do things. Out they were headed into another hallway—this one actually had artwork on the walls. He glanced over his shoulder at Luke with a frown, and saw the boy was turning pale. So he didn't feel so good about the way this was heading either.

Finally the guards turned them to the left and took them through a side door indicated by the officer in charge, who had been joined by someone else with a colonel's insignia. "The interrogation rooms are down this wall," announced the colonel. "One to a room, make it quick."

Within a few seconds Han was yanked away from Luke and the forger and tossed into one of the interrogation rooms, despite his yells of protest. Inside it could've been worse. Han had been expecting racks of torture equipment, from what he'd heard, but the room had contained nothing more threatening than stark white walls, a bench for sleeping on, and a chair opposite the bench.

Guess he'd just have to wait this out.

…

It was nearly eleven at night when Vader arrived on the detention level of his castle to inspect the prisoners taken in the raid. He learned upon arrival that three had been captured, two of them mere clients. Likely those two were of no importance, but there was a chance they could be involved with the Rebellion—he would see to them after the forger.

He rather enjoyed his…_discussion_ with the forger. The man had entirely too much insolence to be good for his health, which Vader took pleasure in demonstrating for him a few times. By the time he left, the forger was very subservient, nursing a bruised windpipe, and had given him several hints as to Rebels he'd previously worked with. It should prove useful information for ferreting out Rebel activity here on Coruscant.

He entered the next cell, and found within a dark-haired teenager, perhaps seventeen or even eighteen, rather scruffily dressed, who jumped nearly to the ceiling when he saw who had come to visit him. "Holy Sith," the young man breathed, backing against the wall.

Vader's annoyance was already piqued. He would get this particular interrogation out of the way as quickly as possible. "Cooperate and you may expect to be treated reasonably given your situation," he announced. "Your name?"

"H-han." Vader fixed a stare on him until he added, "Solo."

The dark lord sensed no lie. "That is a Corellian name, is it not?"

"Yeah."

"Tell me about your involvement with the Rebellion."

"Don't have any," Solo denied. "I swear I never had anything to do with it!"

Again it seemed that Solo was not lying to him. In that case, the extent of his crimes seemed to be soliciting the services of an ID forger, which was a matter he would leave to the local security. "That will be all, Solo," he said, and left room quickly.

Sith lord or no Sith lord, Vader did a sharp double-take when he entered the final cell and found himself face to face with the same boy he had spoken to earlier at the museum. The boy drew a sharp, terrified gasp and practically fled back into the corner of the cell. But he had no way to escape.

Vader tilted his helmet and regarded the frightened child for a moment. It was curious that he should thus encounter the boy again—a very strange coincidence. Unfortunately, the dark lord was a Sith, and a Jedi before that, and he did not believe in coincidences. This was no mistake—he was sure of it.

"We meet again, child," he rumbled, stepping further into the cell. The boy was unduly fearful, he could see that—he was actually shaking this time, and looked as though he might start hyperventilating in sheer terror.

He would not, Vader mused, be so fearful if he did not have something to hide. The dark lord had best ferret out just what that something was.

"Cooperate, and you will not be harmed," Vader told him. "Now. Give me your name."

Even on that very basic question the boy quailed for several seconds, until Vader shifted impatiently.

"Luke Solo," he finally answered.

His first reaction was to start at the familiar first name, before he reminded himself that there were thousands upon thousands of Lukes in the galaxy. His second reaction was to cross the cell and lock his hand around the boy's chin and jaw, forcing the boy to meet his gaze.

"Do not lie to me," he ordered angrily, tightening his grip enough that the child flinched. "What is your name?"

…

Luke gasped as the Sith stormed over to him and seized him by the chin, demanding again that he give his name. He could feel through the man's grip his rising anger as he held his silence, could sense that he might soon be in serious danger. But he _couldn't_ tell the man his real name—Force, he _would_ die if he did. Hardly the way to get himself _out_ of danger.

What was he supposed to do? _Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan…_ What he wouldn't give to have his teacher back—Obi-Wan would have known what to do. Or his father. Surely his father—

He yelped, his train of thought broken, as the hand let go only to slap him across the face, knocking him down on the bench.

…

The boy's obstinacy was proving to be considerable. The dark lord had had occasion to question children before this, though not frequently—the stubbornest of them had not defied him further than one blow. This one looked to be of an age where he should still carry an instinctive respect for his elders; considering how afraid he was, that slap should have been more than enough to break down his resistance.

It had not been a very hard blow—only hard enough to startle him, to sting some. Enough that he should have succumbed to his fear of his questioner.

But the young one had not done so. He had recovered by now—he was backed against the wall again, and had an arm up to try and ward off any further blows. Vader did, however, sense an increase of fear. Perhaps once more would be enough…

…Unless _he_ was not the cause of the boy's fear? He frowned at that thought. He could tell the fear was directed at him, but that did not _necessarily_ mean it was centered on him. Perhaps…perhaps the boy was afraid not of _him_, but of revealing his name to the dark lord?

Did he fear, even, for his life?

Vader regarded the boy silently, pondering. If he thought he was in danger of death, the boy's fear no longer appeared so unreasonable. In fact, he was controlling it rather well. But what name could he have that would cause him to feel such danger? The child did not strike him as irrational—quite the opposite, he seemed a very intelligent young one from their encounter in the museum, from the questions he had asked and the careful way he had handled the lightsaber…

Suddenly the conversation came back to him. _Does that gauge change intensity or length?_

It was not the question an amateur would have asked. An amateur might not even have noticed the small control setting in the first place, let alone have had any idea what it might be used for. And he knew the case at the museum had had no such information posted about the blade on display. He had read it.

So where had this young one, who certainly could not remember the Jedi, gotten his ideas?

He decided to switch questions.

"We will come back to the name," he announced finally. The boy lowered his guard warily. "Tell me how old you are."

That was more productive. "Thirteen," he answered readily.

Vader felt a pang despite himself. His own child would have been thirteen—might _be_ thirteen, as he no longer knew for certain.

"And where are you from?" But the young one evidently sensed danger along those lines too—rather than try a lie this time, he shut down immediately, bringing his arm back up.

Vader was growing very impatient with the obstinate child, very impatient indeed. "Where is your family?" he demanded instead.

A surprising spark of anger entered those frightened green eyes. "Dead," he said shortly.

There was a story there. "For how long?"

The boy showed some hesitancy again, but Vader had had enough of it. He drew the chair up directly to the bench, dragged the boy out of the corner by the head, and forced the child to meet his gaze with one glove while holding the boy's hands down with the other. "For how long?" he repeated coldly.

"I-I never knew my parents," he gasped finally.

"You have no siblings?"

A brief pause before he began, "My brother is here—"

_Lie_. He immediately dealt out a second slap—the boy gave a startled yelp. That had been a harder blow, more painful. "Lie to me again, and there will be much harsher punishment awaiting you," he threatened, yanking the boy's head back up. "Do you understand?"

He tightened his grip on the boy's chin until he got a whispered, "Yes."

"Good. Now answer the question."

"No, I don't have any."

"Good boy," he approved. Perhaps it was time to return to one of the questions he had refused to answer, while he was still a bit intimidated. "Where are you from?"

The boy trembled, trying to pull back—but Vader's grip on him was relentless. "You _will_ give me an answer," he promised darkly. "I have plenty of ways to persuade you, none of which will be pleasant."

"I-I lived on Corellia."

He was being truthful, but that did not answer the question. "I did not ask where you have lived," he said. "I asked where you were from."

"The Outer Rim," the boy tried to dodge again. He flinched as his head was pulled up even more sharply.

"I am losing my patience, young one," the dark lord snarled. "Name a system."

Once more the boy tried to shut down, but Vader would have none of it. He reached out with the dark side and sent a spike of very genuine pain reeling down the boy's spine. The boy twisted desperately for thirty seconds before Vader let the pain fade away. It was not much more intense than a bad backache, but it was enough to warn the young one of what would follow if he did not obey. It worked.

"Tatooine," came a whimpered answer, full of fear and hurt.

The dark lord jerked backwards, letting go of the boy in shock. He knew. He knew that Vader would find the name Tatooine significant—and if he were so afraid, he must know a little of the reasons why, as well.

There were only three people who could have warned this child—Owen and Beru Lars, or Obi-Wan.

Dear Force…was this child…?

Thirteen years old…terrified of revealing his name…had lived on Corellia…asked that question about the lightsaber…

It was too coincidental that he should simply run into the child—and _on Coruscant_, of all places! In the Galactic Museum!

Could it really be possible?

Much, much more gently, he reached out to the boy. He was curled up now on the bench, head tucked down, trembling—at Vader's touch he flinched sharply. "Look at me, boy," he ordered, in what he hoped came across as a softer sort of rumble. The boy let him lift his head again.

The dark lord looked long at the frightened young face opposite him. The boy did not look anything like the images Vader had from the house on Krytoa—he was several years older, his hair dark, his eyes green. Of course that hair and those eyes could very easily be a disguise, but he could not now see past them.

Still…there was one other way he could test the boy. He remembered well being able to sense his baby while Padme was pregnant, remembered the little one's unique presence in the Force, how there had been a place in his mind where the child's mind connected—a place still gaping and aching with the old loss.

Hesitantly, afraid of what he might find, Vader reached towards the boy's mind and probed. No outward sign of Force sensitivity met his searches—but that could be due to Kenobi. His wily onetime Jedi master would surely have taught the child to conceal his Force presence. Such good shielding would be evidence of the boy's great prowess in the Force.

Unfortunately it also left him with a dilemma. He could, of course, force his way past the boy's defenses—being so young, so much less experienced, the child certainly could not stop him. But an intrusion of that sort would, at the very least, terrify him—at worst inflict painful damage. He knew quite well how agonizing _that_ could be, and had no desire to put this boy through such suffering, whether the young one proved to be his son or not.

Yet how was he to know otherwise?

"Tell me what your name is," he ordered instead.

…

Again the man demanded his name, and again Luke's terror surged. He had already given in on Tatooine, and he was terrified that that much might have betrayed him. But it wasn't a sure thing—whereas he _knew_ his name would finish him.

_Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan…_

_Luke?_

Luke jerked upright, actually shaking off Vader's grip on his chin. His fear faded a little as he swept his eyes back and forth across the room, at a loss for where that voice could _possibly_ be coming from—because it sounded exactly like Obi-Wan, and Obi-Wan wasn't here.

_Luke..._

_Obi-Wan?_ he answered mentally.

_Luke,_ the ghostly voice echoed affirmatively in his head.

_But you're dead!_

_There is no death_, his master reminded him. _There is the Force._

_Well, yeah…_ Luke thought, _but…_

_All will be well, young one,_ the voice continued. _Do as he says._

_But, he'll _kill_ me—_

_Do as he says…_

…

Vader watched in confusion as the fear in the boy's eyes was abruptly replaced by surprise. The boy jerked out of his grip and turned around, back and forth, searching the small interrogation room, as though he had heard something. But there had been no noise. As he looked on, bewildered, the young one abruptly became still again, staring into space. It was a good minute before his eyes refocused again on Vader.

The dark lord reached out again to take hold of the boy, but this time he did not shake or even flinch. He was still afraid, but something else was there—something Vader could not quite identify. They sat quietly for some seconds, watching each other. Finally the Sith lord spoke.

"Tell me your name," he repeated.

Miraculously, the boy actually opened his mouth after a pause—and exactly as he did so, the cell door hissed open, distracting both of them.

"My lord?" It was one of his personal aides; the man's name escaped him at present.

Snarling to himself, Vader stood, releasing the boy, who scrambled backwards. "I gave orders not to be disturbed," he hissed dangerously, advancing on the man.

"I—I realize that, my lord, but the Emperor has contacted the castle," the colonel got out. "He is waiting on your private conference line. He was insistent that he speak with you immediately."

Vader growled angrily. Trapped, that was what he was—he couldn't very well keep the Emperor waiting, not with this latest episode so shortly behind them. Besides, the little one wasn't going anywhere.

He turned to face the boy, pointing a finger at him. "I will return shortly, young one," he promised. The boy only stared at him. Furious at the interruption, the dark lord stormed from the cell.


	11. Close Scrape

Author's Note: Sorry for this taking a while…I've been rather busy, and I kept having to rewrite pieces as well. But here you are, and hopefully this will satisfy you all! Please don't forget to review me…I don't mind negative feedback as long as it is expressed helpfully. If you have any ideas for improvement, big or small, please don't hesitate to share. Enjoy!

Han leaned back despondently against his cell wall. An in-person encounter with the galaxy's second most important and first most feared individual did not leave one in the best of moods, no matter how brief the contact may have been. But even more disturbing was the knowledge that Luke was or already had undergone the same ordeal—for the second time that day—and had far, far more reason to be scared silly than Han. He could only hope the kid would be able to hold it together and maybe save himself from suspicion. But it seemed impossible that Vader could come so close to his quarry and not realize it…

He jumped as the cell door swished open without warning. Glancing up, he had expected to see armored guards entering.

Except this for sure was no armored guard. In front of him stood a dark-haired young man, probably not much older than Han himself, dressed in a somewhat battered jumpsuit and carrying a blaster—which definitely wasn't protocol.

"Good evening," he said with a mock bow. "I'd like to invite you along on an escape party."

Han could hardly believe his luck. "Wouldn't miss it," he answered, jumping up from his bench. "Han Solo."

The other guy waved his blaster, glancing over his shoulder. "Wedge Antilles. Come on."

"Mind if I invite a friend along?" Han said quickly.

"As long as your friend knows how to run and shoot," Antilles shrugged.

"Eh, we got the run covered anyway," Han said. "And he can dodge pretty good." He pointed. "That's the cell."

Antilles nodded and leveled his blaster at the lock. In another second the door hissed open and Han rushed in. Luke was there, alright, and he didn't look so good. He was pale, leaning against the wall, and Han watched as his expression slowly shifted out of hopelessness. "Han?" he whispered.

"He didn't hurt ya, did he, kid?" Han breathed, crossing over and helping him up. Luke winced and reached a hand around to rub his back.

"I'm okay," he said softly. "How did you—"

"Talk an' run, buddy," Han said shortly, dragging Luke out after him by the hand. "Meet Wedge Antilles here. Antilles, this is my kid brother Luke."

"Nice to have you along," Antilles acknowledged with a surprisingly good-natured grin. "Well, this architecture is lovely, but I've heard you get a better view out on the streets, so what say we find out?"

"I'm all for it," Luke agreed softly, with only a side glance down the hall at the pile of obviously dead guards. Wedge tossed them both an extra blaster from his newfound collection.

"If it moves and it ain't me, shoot it," he said. "And stick close behind me, I'm pretty sure I have a route to a speeder hangar."

They followed Antilles down the hall to the door they'd been brought in by, all fearful of opening it—but the alarms must not have been raised yet, for no one was outside. They slunk quickly away from the detention wing after their mysterious guide.

…

Vader had just finished his conversation with the Emperor and was seething inwardly over the pettiness of the intrusion, on his walk back to the detention wing and the child, when the castle's sirens began to scream and a voice came over the intercom. "All squads proceed to level 127…intruder alert…all squads proceed to level 127…intruder alert…"

In a fit of indescribable rage, the dark lord snatched up his comlink. "Status report," he ordered as soon as the control room came online.

"Prison break from level 127, my lord," the answer came immediately. "Rooms 3,4, and 9 reporting security breach. The fugitives appear to be headed for a speeder hangar on 127. We are directing our forces to intercept them."

"I want all bay doors sealed," Vader ordered tightly. "Do not allow them to escape this compound." He switched off the comlink and adjusted his direction towards the speeder hangar. He would be cursed if he would lose that child when he had been so close!

…

Luke was breathless by the time they arrived in the speeder hangar—only to see the great gates whistling shut!

"Kreth!" Han swore furiously, and Wedge fired a blaster shot at the walls in frustration—then shots rang out behind them, and the two older escapees had to spin around and return fire.

Luke's decision was split-second. If they couldn't get out, they were going to be taken prisoner again, and Vader would come back to question him again, and soon enough he'd find out what he wanted to know, and then he'd be dead. So it didn't much matter if he did this…

Dropping his well-maintained shields, Luke desperately reached into the Force, and felt the connection come more easily than it ever had. He pushed his mind out, pushed his hand out—and the hangar gates ground to a halt. With a violent shriek of protesting machinery, the panels reversed direction, ripping out their tracks as they flew back apart, sparks flying from overloaded circuitry.

"Come on!" he shouted at Wedge and Han, pointing at the open bay. The others didn't take the time to question their apparent good luck.

…

Vader was nearly at the speeder hangar and could hear the shots ringing out when the Force burst out in a sudden eruption of brightness. It dazed him—he physically staggered into the wall before the brilliance resolved itself into a single, shining, and above all deeply familiar presence. In a moment he felt the gaping emptiness in his mind refilled. The sensation of high-spirited laughter fell like a stun baton across his darkened soul.

_Child!_

The boy was his son…his bright, brilliant, _alive_ son…

As if from a great distance he sensed his child stretch out and instinctively take hold of the Force with a depth and agility well beyond his young age—felt the boy _pull_, _push_, sensed his son's desperation. And then the desperation vanished in a blindingly bright surge of triumph.

His own desperation quickly arose, though, as the boy's presence began to fade. He was drawing away, swiftly—he and his companions had contrived to escape the castle.

_It must have been the bay doors he was pulling on_, Vader analyzed numbly. He could still sense the child's presence, but it had already grown much dimmer—and he could not bear the ache that was rapidly rising in him to have his son back immediately, to feel the little one's bright spirit refilling and healing the great wound he had lived with for so long. It had been _thirteen years_ since he had felt so whole, so free of pain—to lose it so immediately—he could not allow it—he must prevent the child from fleeing the planet!

Desperately he stretched with all his might to touch his boy's mind. _Luke…Luke, come back. Come back, young one…_

Luke did indeed hear him, but the result was not the desired one—a surge of horrible fear came to him through their bond, and the next instant the bond was sliced off at the middle as the young one brought his impressive mental shields back up. Vader was left to stagger at the sudden return of the emptiness.

It cut him to the core, sharper than any lightsaber ever could, to realize how utterly terrified of him his son was.

But his determination reasserted itself. He could deal with that when he again had the boy—but he must first ensure Luke remained in system. He seized his comlink and connected it to the bridge of the _Executor_ overhead.

Admiral Siler immediately appeared in miniature on his projector, almost his single least favorite officer of the Empire, just ahead of one Admiral Ozzel and a close second to Wilhuff Tarkin, with whom he had enjoyed a standing hatred since he was eleven years old at the debacles of Zonama Sekot—but for once his disdain of the man did not arise. "Admiral, you will cordon the planet immediately. A Rebel craft will shortly be attempting to leave the system. If you do not contain that ship and return the passengers to me alive, you may consider your life forfeit."

Siler swallowed tightly. "It will be contained, my lord." He turned quickly back to the bridge. "Communications, order the planetary traffic to descend to orbital altitude…"

…

The three escapees ditched the speeders as soon as they hit Aldray Avenue and hitched a quick ride on a public transport, where they did their best to mingle until they reached the block where Han and Luke had left the _Falcon_.

Wedge was none too impressed when he saw their escape ship.

"We're flying that crate out of here?" he said dubiously.

"Yeah, she's a crate," Han said grimly, "but she's got a Sienar beta drive and I had a couple of quads installed last month, so you can bet she'll shoot back and run like a nerf with a burning tail."

They ran aboard and Han yelled at the other two to get into the quad cannon turrets while he lifted the ship out of the hangar. There was no time to waste being fancy—they had to get clear of the system before the Fleet imposed a cordon, and they might already be too late. He took the freighter out of the atmosphere at nearly ninety degrees to the planet surface. As they broke into space, he heard groans come over the cabin speakers from Luke and Wedge. The traffic was all either below orbital altitude or heading down fast; their outbound trajectory was going to stick out like a Wookiee at a Jawa convention.

Crap.

But he had no choice except to go for it. "See you in the nine Corellian hells," Wedge said wryly over the intercom.

Huh…so the guy was a Corellian too. Make it all the more interesting. "Here goes nothin'," Solo announced darkly. "Strap in and shoot like you mean it."

The next second they were barreling through a swarm of TIEs, ignoring all the warnings from the flagships.

"Got one!" Wedge sang out; Luke wasn't far behind him with a spectacular two-in-one shot. "Make that three down, Solo!"

"Great, pal, don't get cocky!" Han wrestled with his controls for dear life, swearing anxiously under his breath, pumping every last klick-per-second he could from his sublight drives, and seizing every spare instant to punch in the coordinates for Nar Shaddaa. The world was ablaze with laser fire outside the ship, with flashing lights and howling buzzers demanding his attention inside the cockpit.

It was so intense he hardly knew it when they tore in upon the Star Destroyer blockade—everything was a whole lot of shouting over the intercom, explosions and trying to dodge the heavy fire from the big guns on the warships. At one point his shields fried under a direct hit from the single biggest destroyer he'd ever wished not to see—but he kept driving on because they were only aiming at his engines and their lasers weren't set high enough to kill his ship—weaving back and forth, trying to find a break through the blockade.

All of a sudden, Luke scored a freak hit on the bridge of one of the destroyers, fritzing out its shields—and as the _Falcon_ performed an axis roll, Wedge proved his worth by nailing the sucker again. With a spectacular flash, the bridge exploded, and the destroyer began a nosedive towards the planet—but all Han noticed was the opening in the blockade.

Without another whisper of a thought the freighter punched through, and then it was nothing but starlines.

…

Admiral Siler did not survive the freighter's escape by two minutes, such was Vader's wrath; indeed the only thing he regretted afterwards was that killing off Siler forced him to take on Ozzel as the next commander of his fleet and flagship. But his rage was by far the least powerful of his emotions at present.

The dark lord was in such an emotional whirlwind that it was all he could do to contain the feelings behind his shields to evade the Emperor's notice. Only one thing could he allow himself to think for several hours—his master _must not know_. He replaced all security recordings that featured young Luke, destroying the originals. The forger met with a quick death, getting no more warning than the ignition of Vader's saber, as did the security forces who had arrested his son, on the excuse of their having let prisoners escape. Within the hour, Luke might as well have never been in Imperial City for all the evidence that remained.

Fortunately, the dark lord had a good excuse for leaving the system—his Fleet duties had piled up exponentially during his absence. With a single curt notice to his master that he was leaving Coruscant with Fifth Fleet to deal with "affairs," and throwing in a few urgent-sounding pieces of intelligence regarding Rebel activity for good measure, he sent his shuttle up to the _Executor_. Fifteen minutes after his arrival, Fifth Fleet hypered out of system, bound for a rendezvous with Third Fleet.

Once he was a good distance away, Vader retreated into his hyperbaric chamber and released his hold on his emotions, let himself think. Like a great flash flood, anger and sorrow and pain and a thousand other sensations overpowered his thoughts, and he let them battle as they would to see which would prove strongest.

In the end, he was surprised by a sudden outpouring of joy. A most un-Sithly emotion if ever there was one, he growled at himself, trying to deny the fact—but he soon had to give up. It was a joy from the same mold as the first sensation of holding Sara and Sandra, the joy he had felt the moment Padme first whispered to him that she was pregnant.

_I have a son_. It was strange how much different that was from his daughters. They were no less precious to him now—but Luke was the child he had believed lost—to be given that child back nearly made him want to…cry.

Of course, he certainly did _not_ do any such weak, uncharacteristic, womanly thing.

Dizzily he turned the memory of his son over and over in his mind's eye. He had his mother's build, Padme's build, Padme's more delicate features, Padme's stubbornness—in fact, when his hair was dyed dark like it had been there seemed to be almost nothing about the boy that reminded him of himself.

But he knew from those images that his son was not dark-haired or green-eyed—he was blond and blue-eyed, like his father. And the museum—how he had been so interested in the lightsaber, had picked out the Jedi fighter as his favorite. That was all from him, as was his clear strength in the Force. With a deep surge of pride he remembered how well the boy had been able to hide his sensitivity.

And he was a brave child, too, despite the dark lord's impressions from their two encounters. He had thought himself in danger of his life from Vader—knowing that, his self-control at the museum was nothing short of magnificent. It was no wonder that, after such a stressful effort earlier and in such a terrifying situation, he had not been able to conceal his enormous fear the second time. And even then, he had retained a measure of control—even, towards the end, had gained ground. It was amazing in a thirteen-year-old.

Thirteen. Vader leaned against the wall of the hyperbaric chamber weakly. Could he really be the father of a teenager? Just two hours ago he had been the father of two-year-old toddlers! To miss so much of his child's life…so much…even in two and a half years, Sara and Sandra had done such a great deal of growing, changing. How much he had missed seeing in his son! Seeing him begin to walk, teaching him to fly a speeder (as he clearly could do), watching him learn and grow in the Force, hearing his first words, rocking him to sleep, holding him…seeing him born…

Seeing him born. He closed his eyes against the bleak upwelling of agony. Padme, Padme…the nightmares of long ago came back. Had she died in childbirth after all, as he had so feared, despite all his efforts to prevent it from happening?

He no longer knew. The discovery of his son had destroyed all he thought he knew about what had happened to Padme—but it had given him one, great, incredible relief.

_I did not kill her. I _could not_ have killed her_. Luke was alive; his mother must have lived long enough to be taken away from Mustafar, long enough to give birth in safe medical conditions—the unborn child would have suffocated if its mother died and ceased giving it oxygen, and equally could not have survived such a premature delivery in harsh conditions. Padme must have been gotten to somewhere safe—and there was nowhere that close to Mustafar, certainly nowhere closer than a few hours' hyperspace jump. It was thus impossible that _he_ could have killed her.

…_She was alive…I felt her…_

She _had_ been alive.

Which meant he had been _lied_ to. He had thought he hated Obi-Wan, but that fury paled before the soul-deep, cold, acidic rage that was slowly rising against his master. Palpatine had lied to him, not once but twice—first that he knew the way to save Padme from the fate he had dreamed of, and secondly that Vader had killed the most precious, beautiful, beloved thing in his life.

In comparison to that great, unforgivable betrayal, Obi-Wan Kenobi was a saint among men.

But his anger could not now hold sway, not while the relief was still so great. _My child is alive, _alive_, I did not kill him, I did not kill my Padme…_ He had still hurt her, and he would never forgive himself for it, but at least the greatest sin could not be attributed to him. And his young son was within his reach, his precious priceless son…already he felt sick at the memory of striking the boy, of hurting him in any way. But—Force, he had not yet known…

Yet it was not long that he could be despondent. There was too much to feel relief for, too much to think about, too much to plan. Of course he must search the child out again, that was the first thing to be done obviously. Find him again, bring him back to Bast Castle…

…And then he could tackle the boy's opinion of his father. He frowned again. What did Luke know about him? What lies had Kenobi fed him, that the child would believe himself in mortal peril from his father? His ire against Obi-Wan was immediately refreshed—

—And it was just as quickly balanced when the possibility occurred to him that Luke might not know _anything_. It would then be quite logical for a Force-sensitive boy to be terrified of Vader, who had slaughtered not only the Jedi but also any Force-sensitives Palpatine did not choose to use. Kenobi, he grudgingly admitted, might not have fed his son any lies about his father, but only refrained from discussing the subject.

Just what _had_ Kenobi done with his child? His first reaction was of course anger that the child had been kept from him. But he then came to realize that from the admittedly twisted Jedi point of view, Kenobi must have believed he was protecting the young one. Well. That was no less than he wished to do. The man had been wrong to keep father from son, but Luke did not appear to be an unhealthy or maladjusted child, nor had his great abilities been left without cultivation. Other than imbuing him with incorrect views, Obi-Wan had likely done nothing more harmful than feed Luke, send him to bed, see to his basic education, and the like.

Vader therefore calmed his rage. He could perhaps even bring himself to forgive Kenobi just this once—for if Luke had been hidden from his father, he had been just as effectively hidden from the Emperor, and it could be argued that Vader owed his old master for thus protecting the boy. He felt any potential debt was more than outweighed by the rest of Kenobi's offenses, but the man was dead—it was pointless to fuel a rage he couldn't vent anymore, and in any case this injury could still be repaired.

He did not doubt that he could win the boy's trust, once he had him again. It would not be easy—that had been no trifling fright in his son's eyes, and Vader had unwittingly given his son a glimpse of his harsher side that Sara and Sandra hadn't seen. But he felt with time, with patience, with gentleness, with familiarity, that fear could be shed. His son might be thirteen, but that was still so young and malleable an age.

And besides being his precious little one—what an ally he could be when he was grown! Eager anticipation arose in him at the prospect of the two of them, side by side. They would be a force like nothing before, one to make even a wily, traitorous master of darkness quiver on his throne. He had seen such possibilities with Sara and Sandra—but now his dreams were eleven years closer to realization. The boy was already so strong! Vader was confident he would prove a worthy ally.

_Back in hyperspace…_

"Kid, we gotta stop pulling such close scrapes," Han breathed shakily into the com, slumping in his seat as he watched the swirling panoramic safety of hyperspace out the cockpit windows.

"You can say that again," Luke affirmed. The connection was too fuzzy for Han to get any idea of his tone.

"Ah, lighten up, you two," Antilles chided cheerfully. "A meter's as good as a lightyear."

Han would have agreed—except Antilles didn't know the kind of danger Luke had been in.

The three of them met up in the rec room. "Nice flying, Solo," Antilles said brightly as soon as he saw Han. "And that was some shooting, kiddo." He grinned at Luke and ruffled the kid's hair a little.

"Thanks," Luke mumbled.

"So who're you again?" Han said. "Introductions got kinda blurry."

"Wedge Antilles."

"You from Corellia?" Han tried hopefully.

"No better place in the galaxy," Antilles nodded.

"There sure ain't," Han agreed, sticking out his hand.

Wedge shook it firmly. "So how'd you two wind up in the box?"

Han shrugged. "Imps launched a sting operation and we got snatched up on the side," he answered vaguely. "Kept askin' about the Rebellion. How about you?"

"Rebellion."

"They accuse everyone of that?" Han snorted.

"Just about, but they had it right with me."

Han and Luke both raised their eyebrows. So this was a genuine Rebel, huh?

"Guess you had some motivation to get out, then," Han finally responded.

Wedge laughed and sat himself down at the game table. "Kreth, yes," he said, with that same good-natured grin. "For crying out loud, they didn't even have a 'fresher in those boxes."

Han shook his head at the guy's nonchalance. "Well, you tell me where you feel like getting' dropped off, cause we for sure owe you that much."

"Thanks," Wedge said. "You know where the Dantooine system is?"

"My navigator can find it," Han said, nodding to Luke. "We'll set our course there once we hit Nar Shaddaa."

Wedge raised his eyes. "You generally think of Nar Shaddaa as safe?"

"Beats Coruscant." They stood around in silence for a while.

"Well," Antilles announced abruptly, "I dunno about you two, but I'm starving. Does this crate of yours have a galley, Solo?"

Han pointed down the lefthand corridor.

"Great. You two like Giju stew?"

Han rolled his eyes. "We're Corellian, aren't we?"

Wedge grinned and disappeared down the corridor. Han turned immediately to Luke.

"Kid, are you okay?" he asked anxiously.

Luke shook his head slowly and rubbed his back again. Han felt his stomach sink. "Did Vader hurt you?" he demanded, grabbing Luke's shoulders.

The boy bit his lip, but finally he nodded. "Not bad," he qualified. "My back is sore."

Han promptly pulled the youngster over to the bench. "Then you lie down," he ordered. "We'll get you somethin' for it."

"I don't need painkiller," Luke objected. "It's not _that _sore." But Han would not let the boy weasel out of taking at least two tablets of generic painkiller.

"Was he grillin' you?" Han pressed once he had Luke stretched out on the bench.

Luke nodded shakily, and Han judged his stomach to be roughly in the same proximity as his toes. "Come on, you gotta tell me what he found out," the ex-street rat pushed fiercely.

"I had to tell him how old I was and that my parents were dead," Luke murmured, "and where I was from."

Han relaxed. "That ain't so bad. Is that all? He didn't get your name?"

He saw the boy tremble. "No."

"Does he know anything else?"

"He found out we weren't brothers," Luke answered. "But I think that's all."

He refrained from mentioning that terrifying moment on the speeders when he heard the dark lord's voice echoing in his head. Vader certainly knew he was Force-sensitive now—but so long as Luke kept his shields up, he didn't need to worry, and Han couldn't help him there anyway. "We better do something, though," he murmured.

"Yeah," Han agreed. "How you feel about red hair?"

Luke made a face. "Han, there's a lot of people who look like me," he pointed out. "And they didn't get a mug shot or anything."

Han relaxed a little as he thought about that. Right—so Vader now knew exactly who he was looking for. But he was the only one who did, and Vader could only be so many places, right? Right.

"I think we better find somewhere to lie low for a while," he said anyway. "Just to make sure. Maybe somewhere in Hutt space, the Empire doesn't stick its nose in too far there."

Luke shrugged, pushing himself up on his elbows.

Antilles reappeared from the corridor. "Hey, Solo, you got anything to drink on this crate?" He set a tray full of steaming bowls down on the game table.

"Water," Han told him, picking up a bowl and digging straight in. Luke, rather more scrupulous, stirred the stew around with his spoon and inspected its contents carefully before trying it.

"Nothing special, but it's not bad," Wedge said, settling down next to Luke. "You feeling okay, kid?" he asked.

"He had a rougher time than I did," Han said darkly between bites.

"Yeah? You two must have been there longer than me if they got around to asking questions."

Han shook his head. "We were only there—what, maybe an hour?"

Wedge raised his eyebrows. "I didn't think any of the interrogators was that industrious."

"I don't think we got one of the usual interrogators," Han snorted.

"Funny guy, was he?"

"If you think Vader's a comedian, sure."

Wedge choked on his stew. When he could breathe again, he got out, "You wanna run that by me again?"

"Yeah. Kinda surprised me too when he showed up." Han stared at the far wall, chewing.

Wedge shook his head. "You get him too, kid?"

Luke nodded, pushing his bowl back up on the table and lying his head down, closing his eyes.

"Come on, let him sleep," Han told Wedge. The two of them retreated back to the galley, leaving Luke to rest while they cleaned up.

"Solo, is that brother of yours okay?" Wedge asked him softly once the door was closed behind them.

"He got the crap scared out of him," Han said bluntly. "And he was sayin' his back hurt. He didn't say exactly why. I gave him painkiller for it."

They loaded the bowls into the washer silently and stood around for a few minutes.

"Look, Han—I'm not trying to push, but Vader doesn't bother with questioning just anybody," Wedge finally said in a low voice. "And I've seen the wanted lists over the last few months."

Han immediately put on his sabacc face. "What's your point?" he said lightly.

Wedge crossed his arms. "I think that kid is the one the Empire's been looking for," he finally announced, point-blank. "Am I right?"

Han stiffened up just a little.

"Buddy, relax—I'm a Rebel, remember? I'm not about to turn anyone in." Wedge leaned back against the bulkhead. "I appreciate that you're trying to look out for him, but you're up against _Vader_, obviously on a personal basis, and you aren't gonna beat him by yourself."

"Get to the point, Antilles."

"You need help from people who have more resources," Wedge said patiently. "Look—I can take you two back to base, and you can give Command your case. I guarantee you the Alliance is always ready to help out anyone on the run from the Empire, especially a kid like Luke. How's it sound?"

Han crossed his arms. "I'll think about it."

_A month later, on Dantooine…_

Bail Organa was generally a man who enjoyed being busy, on the move. He therefore was normally in his element when traveling, especially when he could keep himself brisk with the prospect of important work to be done at his destination.

But this journey—this was one he would rather not have had to make.

Ostensibly, Senator Organa had come to Dantooine for charitable purposes, one of his numerous relief projects for refugees. And indeed that was an important thing to see to while he was on Dantooine—but much more important was the secret errand he was also attending to on this world.

The Alliance to Restore the Republic had since its inception been the greatest expression of Bail's deepest convictions, resolutions, the project which he could pour all his energies into with no reservations of conscience. His work with the Alliance was even more his life's work than the Senate was, and beyond that a great memorial to lost friends who had stood for its cause. Friends such as Padme Amidala—whose daughter, in this case unfortunately, shared her mother's heart for justice and equality, and thus took great interest in her father's relief projects.

Any other time than this, Bail was brimming with delight and approval for Leia's humanitarian interests. He was of course no less pleased with this quality now—but he strongly regretted that she had asked to come with him to Dantooine to see one of his projects firsthand.

There was really no way for him to squirm out of consenting—not without telling her of his involvement in the Rebellion, and she was too young to worry about such things yet. She was already growing up fast, and Bail refused to speed the process any more. And Dantooine was as safe a world as they came, so he could find no other solid grounds upon which to discourage the development of her interests. He did not _want_ to discourage her, either—and so he had been compelled to bring Leia with him.

And that was the reason for his nervousness. Should he be discovered by the Empire and arrested, what might happen to Leia? It was not that the likelihood of such an event was any greater than usual…but he was risking so much more…

Well, the only thing to do was to get his business, official and otherwise, finished as quickly as he could manage and get back to the relative safety of Alderaan.

They had landed on Dantooine this morning, and he had taken Leia with him to the refugee camps that afternoon, where they had gotten reports of the progress of Alderaan's efforts towards relief and done some helping out themselves. And of course the local authority figures had seen to the appropriate formal dining and such in the evening; he had just managed to extract himself and Leia and settle his daughter in her rooms.

It was now time to see to his other tasks in system. He left his guest rooms smoothly enough under the pretense of some evening amusement or other and took his speeder out of the city to a rural district several hours away, where the Alliance's headquarters were presently situated.

…

"Senator Organa," General Dodonna greeted Bail upon his arrival some hours later. "I'm glad you were able to make it safely. We've had no reports of suspicion, but still caution is always wise."

"And I'm glad to hear your operations are in no state of danger," Bail returned sincerely. "How are you, Jan?"

"Oh, well enough." Dodonna shrugged good-naturedly. "No reasons out of the ordinary for complaining about the state of affairs."

"Your situation here is satisfactory?"

"It certainly is," Dodonna said sincerely. "Plenty of room, plenty of food. Short on personnel of course, but that's hardly unusual, is it?"

Bail laughed wryly. "I'm afraid not," he agreed.

"Not many new recruits come in here," Dodonna continued more seriously. "Most are with the resistance cells on their homeworlds. Although I did get three new ones just a couple weeks ago."

"Excellent."

Dodonna stopped. "As it happens, Senator Organa, that's one of the things we certainly need to discuss."

"Your new recruits?" Bail raised his eyebrows in puzzlement.

"Only one of them. Senator, we need to set a minimum age requirement. Obviously I cannot speak for the Alliance as a whole, so any decisions must be left to Command, but one of the new recruits who arrived is just thirteen years old."

Bail felt an immediate pang in his gut. It had not been long ago that he had decided how little he wanted _his_ thirteen-year-old involved in a burgeoning galactic war—yet here was one wanting to sign on.

"Obviously, the first issue this raises is how young a recruit the Alliance should as a rule accept, but I can't deal with that problem. The second issue is what I am to do with the boy in question."

"Can he not be sent home?"

"He claims to be an orphan, Senator. I can hardly justify relinquishing him to an Imperial childcare facility. And there are also…well, other issues which complicate the matter."

Bail nodded. "Perhaps I could judge the situation better if I could meet the boy in question?" he asked.

"Certainly, Senator." The general dispatched a junior officer to bring the lad, and the two moved on to the command offices to discuss other pertinent affairs of strategy. They were only about half an hour waiting before the officer returned.

"General? I've got Solo."

"Bring him in."

The next moment a slightly built boy appeared in the room, in a rumpled shirt and soft sleep trousers. His dark brown hair was in shaggy disarray, his feet bare—in general he looked as though the officer had had to roll him straight out of bed.

"Senator, this is Luke Solo. Luke, son, this is Senator Bail Organa."

Bail nearly jumped at the name Luke, so much had it been on his mind these past several months. There was a Luke gone missing somewhere—Elle had not been able to contact the Larses again since her first call to them, word had reached Alderaan of a covert Imperial strike against a small settlement on the planet Krytoa, and several different images of that missing boy were plastered upon every wanted screen in the galaxy. His own people had been searching fiercely, desperate to recover the child before Vader did.

He calmed his nerves by reminding himself that there were thousands of Lukes in the galaxy. With a friendly smile he got up and went to shake the boy's hand.

Luke Solo, whatever else he might be, was no shyer than Leia. He looked directly into Bail's eyes with his own bright green ones. "Hello, senator," he said quietly, gripping the offered hand as firmly as he could.

"Hello, young Luke Solo," Bail said. "General Dodonna gives me to understand you would like to join the Rebellion."

The boy nodded firmly.

If Leia ever got wind of his involvement in the Alliance, Bail had a feeling this was exactly how she'd respond. "Why?" he asked instead. There was a good chance that this was nothing but a typical idealistic whim grown to powerful proportions on nothing but its own allure; in that case he had hopes of being able to dissuade the boy.

But Luke's response immediately dashed his hopes. "The Empire shot my family," he answered, as softly as before. He didn't have to raise his voice—anger was evident in his whole posture.

Bail glanced at Dodonna, understanding the man's predicament far better. _He_ could not think of a response to discourage the boy from reacting to such bitter loss, not when so many of the Alliance's recruits fought for exactly the same reason.

"Do you not have any relatives beyond your parents to go to?" Bail asked. Best to make sure.

"My parents died when I was a baby," was Luke's answer. "It was my relatives that they shot."

Bail felt an ache rising in him at the thought of Leia suffering such deprivation as this boy had at the same age. Luke Solo was practically a poster boy for the Rebel cause, it would seem.

"I came here with my brother," Luke added.

Well—thank the Force the boy had at least one person left to him. "How old is your brother?"

"Almost seventeen."

Bail frowned. Certainly, it would be difficult for the boys—but seventeen, that was nearly of age. Why had the older brother not taken responsibility for seeing to his sibling?

"Can we not put Luke in his brother's care?" Bail asked Dodonna.

"That, senator, is where the other complications enter the picture," was the general's response. "Young Luke here is on the Empire's wanted list. Go on, son, tell him."

Bail's gaze swiveled sharply back to Luke. Was it—was it possible that…?

"The Empire thought my family was linked with the Rebellion," Luke began. "They attacked our home and my uncle and aunt were killed somehow. I don't know because I was away with Han, out of system. When we came back the neighbors said the Empire was looking for us too; I guess maybe they think we'd know something."

"Luke and his brother Han have been on the run for nearly eight months," Dodonna continued. "They encountered one of our soldiers, who offered them assistance from the Alliance."

Bail nodded. "Luke, I've kept you up long enough," he finally said. "You may go. I will discuss your situation with the general and he will inform you in the morning."

"You're not going to send me away, are you?" Luke's eyes were both challenging and frightened.

Bail phrased his answer carefully. "Rest assured, the Alliance will protect you, son. You have my word."

As soon as Luke had gone, Bail turned sharply on Dodonna. "I'm no fool, Dodonna, and neither are you. The Empire doesn't pursue children so fiercely on this thin a basis."

"No, senator, you're not a fool," Dodonna said grimly. "And neither is that boy. I happen to think his story is deliberately weak. He wants us to know he's hiding things. He's just not going to say what he's hiding."

"Rather a sophisticated approach for a young teenager, don't you think?" Bail settled back down in a chair thoughtfully.

"I don't believe he's a very ordinary teenager, senator." Dodonna took the chair on the opposite side of the desk and leaned forward on his elbows. "As you say, the story is thin, and because I thought it so thin I spoke at length with the soldier who brought them here, one Wedge Antilles." Dodonna paused. "Senator, I believe the boy is the child the Empire has been hunting since the incident on Corellia."

Bail felt his head spin in spite of his own suspicions. "Do you have any evidence?"

"I have Antilles' evidence," Dodonna answered. "Apparently he encountered Han and Luke Solo while escaping confinement—on Coruscant."

Bail sucked in his breath. "Coruscant?"

"Yes, senator—the detention block they were being held at, in fact, was located in Lord Vader's castle. Antilles reported that although he had not been interrogated prior to his escape, Han and Luke had been held for only an hour and had already been interrogated. He claims that both were personally questioned by Lord Vader."

"Can you find Antilles for me?"

After an interview with the youthful pilot, who recounted the story of the trio's escape from Coruscant, Bail was quite convinced that the boy he'd just spoken to was absolutely Luke Skywalker. Firstly there was the incident of the miraculously opened bay doors, the doing of a Jedi if ever there was any. And secondly, the Navy had gone to great lengths to stop the escaping ship, very great lengths indeed. Vader must know at least of the boy's Jedi connections—and perhaps more.

Wedge Antilles was dismissed. General and senator sat in silence for a few minutes.

"I'll take both of them back to one of the cells on Alderaan," Bail finally said quietly. "There are plenty of resources to protect him there."

"I agree," Dodonna murmured. "There is one further matter. The boys have a ship I doubt they will agree to part with. I admit it is not a great concern, but they seem to view it as home, and as they have little else..."

Bail groaned and leaned into his hands. "How big a ship?"

"It's a modified YT-1300."

Too big to be carried on the _Tantive IV_. They could perhaps tow it, but that left questions to be asked. "Let's have a pilot fly her to Alderaan a few days behind us," Bail finally concluded.

Dodonna grinned. "Good luck persuading them to let someone else do the flying."

Bail set his mouth firmly. "They're going to have to compromise somewhere." He stood. "I'm leaving system at night, day after tomorrow. I'll send one of my security officers over to pick them up. Make sure they're ready."

"Yes, senator."


	12. Fate Beckons

_Somewhere in space…_

His Majesty's Imperial Navy was far and away the most impressive military force ever assembled in galactic history. She boasted thousands of enormous Star Destroyers, millions of corvettes and snub fighters, and billions of men in her standard gray uniforms—easily outstripping the Imperial Army for sheer grandeur. Amidst the ranks and divisions floated several proud crafts with glorious military histories, fighter divisions renowned across the width and breadth of the galaxy for their prowess.

But there was not one of them that could even be mentioned in the same class as the _Executor_. Even on the crude physical dimension, she literally dwarfed the competition. And she was no less superior in the higher terms of her crew. Most obvious was the collective merit of the resident starfighter battalion, the Fighting 501st, whose spot at the top of the galaxy's piloting totem pole was never contested. But there were few unworthies among the rest of the officers aboard. Only the highest rated personnel were selected to serve in the ship's leadership slots, from the most junior gunner to the ship's captain.

As a result, the bridge crew of the _Executor_ was probably the most stable in the Fleet. Over the past year their individual talents had been successfully forged into a cohesive, competent whole under the outstanding leadership of the ship's captain, Firmus Piett—who had already joined the scarce ranks of Naval officers that could claim the personal approval of the Fleet's commander, Lord Vader. But, alas, there was one person on the bridge whom not even the talented captain could successfully integrate…

"Piett, where are my updates?"

The whole bridge crew muttered under its breath in unison as its resigned captain crossed from his console to the seat of his newest superior. By now, even the lowest of the officers knew that the captain had submitted the daily updates to the admiral's command console no less than three times.

"I have submitted them, sir," the captain said calmly, with a patience that should by rights have earned him sainthood. "They should be on your communications desktop."

"I have _checked_ the desktop, Piett," Admiral Ozzel snapped. "There are no such updates present."

The captain refrained from suggesting for the thousandth time that the admiral check his shipboard communications files, and not the fleet files. "I'll resubmit them, sir," Piett said instead. Behind the admiral's shoulder, the executive officer shook his head at his captain.

The _Executor_ had only been in service for a year and some months. The first admiral to command from her had been…_incapacitated_…before the engines lost their squeal. The second—well, they still weren't sure what the incident over Coruscant had been about, but at least it had rid them of Siler. The crew were already placing bets as to how long Ozzel would grace them with his odious presence.

It was a wonder he'd made it _this_ long. The only explanation anyone could come up with was that Lord Vader was preoccupied with more important matters; otherwise he likely would not have tolerated the constant irritant.

There was a sudden series of chimes across the bridge, announcing an impending arrival. The guards at the door let their hands float down to their holsters…

Then the doors of the bridge slid open, and the guards' hand flashed up into a salute as a tall ominous figure stalked through, black cape flagging behind him. Every spine stiffened at the first unmistakable hiss of the respirator. Heads twisted back around to focus religiously on consoles instead of neighbors. At the head of the bridge, Captain Piett straightened promptly to attention. Even Admiral Ozzel was not yet impervious to the awesome presence his superior commanded, for he too straightened up and put on a somewhat less disagreeable expression.

"Welcome, Lord Va—"

But Vader swept past Ozzel in the space of a single intake of his respirator and proceeded to address his flagship's captain. "Captain Piett, you may issue orders for formation," he said simply.

"Yes, my lord," Piett said pleasantly, beginning to turn to his executive officer with no sign of confusion whatsoever.

Ozzel flashed a glance of consternation back and forth in the instant before Vader turned to him.

"Admiral, prepare to commence your maneuvers," he said.

There was a very…long…tense…silence…

"Ah—maneuvers, my lord?"

The bridge crew dropped even the pretense of activity in anticipation of the Sith lord's response to _that_. It was as scathing as they'd hoped.

"Perhaps, Admiral, the concept of keeping oneself informed is a new one to you?"

Ozzel was struck totally speechless; but then, keeping his mouth shut at that moment was the wisest thing any of the bridge could recall him doing.

"I regret to inform you," the dark lord continued icily, "that I expect you to be familiar with the idea."

The silence continued. Finally, after Ozzel had likely begun to sweat with a vengeance, Vader turned from him in disgust. "Captain Piett, inform the Admiral as to the Fleet schedule. He appears to be unaware of it."

"Yes, my lord," the captain said promptly. "Admiral, the Fleet is scheduled to conduct war exercises beginning at precisely 1600 hours Galactic Time."

All glanced to the chronos—which read 1557 hours.

"This exercise," Piett continued with remarkable equilibrium, "entails the division of the Fleet into two opposing forces, one of which will of course be commanded by you, sir."

"I expect, Admiral, that these exercises will proceed as scheduled," Vader said chillingly. "Unless, of course, your shipboard captain failed to submit his daily updates." The sarcasm in his tone was slicing; evidently word of Ozzel's most irritating failure had reached him.

"Submitted, my lord," Captain Piett said. "As usual." Ozzel didn't dare glare at the captain with Vader present.

"In that case, I am sure you are prepared," Vader rumbled.

Regrettably, the admiral did not protest, which meant the _Executor_ would be stuck with him at least for the duration of the war exercises. It remained to be seen whether Ozzel would survive to witness much of the aftermath…

"The—ah—the exercises will—will commence, my lord—certainly—" Ozzel seemed to be hoping the dark lord would leave before 1600; but Vader would not have bothered coming to the bridge if he hadn't intended to observe the proceedings. The dark lord made no move to cease his observance of the unfortunate admiral. Hearts pounding with wicked amusement and anticipation, the bridge crew broke into activity as Piett issued orders to the rest of Fifth Fleet to assume their positions for the exercises.

The outcome of the battle was very nearly a draw. Considering, though, that the admiral had the _Executor_ at his disposal, whereas Admiral Drean of the first division had only the far inferior _Imperial_-class ships, it was inexcusable for Ozzel to lose at all. It was _beyond_ inexcusable. In fact, that he had managed it was something of a miracle…

But not the sort of miracle that Darth Vader was known to appreciate.

"Impressive, admiral," he said acidly after the exercise sim finished.

A vacuum of silence reigned over the bridge, void of anything save the tangible displeasure of the Sith lord.

"I trust you have an explanation for such a thorough display of incompetence?"

Ozzel did not. He fabricated one out of thin air anyway.

"I thought it might serve as an example to the men."

A low suggestion of a snicker arose from the crew pits; the corners of Captain Piett's mouth worked furiously as he fought to maintain his stoic expression. No one could see behind Vader's mask—but they could well enough imagine what kind of murderous amusement must be lurking within.

Murderous was indeed the correct word—in another instant Ozzel's face contorted strangely. He froze for a moment, working his mouth—his hands flashed to his throat, tugging at his collar in mounting horror—a grim Piett edged to the side.

"I tolerate neither lies nor incompetence in any officer under my command," Vader hissed viciously. "You have failed me for the last time."

Despite their harbored hatred of the admiral, the entire bridge flinched in unison at the subsequent, deafeningly final thud that came a few minutes later.

"Remove that from my bridge," Vader snarled into the silence.

It was known that Vader had no scruples about eliminating officers who failed him at a critical point—but standard war exercises were hardly critical. He was in a dark and dangerous mood indeed to strike so vengefully for so comparatively minor an offense. Piett saw it quickly and adjusted accordingly.

"At once, my lord," he said, gesturing sharply to the stormtroopers at the door. In a few moments the unfortunate object of the Sith's wrath was dragged out of sight, as swiftly as out of life.

Over the next few minutes the bridge slowly picked itself up out of silence and uneasiness, resuming its usual activity. Vader clasped his hands behind his back and stared darkly out of the viewport at the front of the bridge. It was half an hour before Piett dared to approach him.

"My lord, shall I submit our incoming reports from the exercises to Admiral Drean?" he said briskly.

"No. Send them to me." Though the vocabulator couldn't convey it, Piett could sense his superior's frustration.

"Certainly, my lord," he answered tactfully. "Shall I condense them for you prior?"

The dark lord turned to look at Piett, seeming abruptly thoughtful. "That will be acceptable," he finally responded. "Carry on, Captain."

…

Vader swept into his quarters, his black anger somewhat assuaged by Piett's refreshing competence. Thank the Force there was at least _one_ good officer in the blasted Navy!

Unfortunately, he could not long avoid replacing Ozzel—and then there would be the matter of the Emperor. Palpatine largely left him to deal with the Navy as he wished, turning a selectively blind eye to his…_handling_ of certain officers—but killing a high ranking admiral over a mishandled exercise…well, he had been wrong. He ground his teeth admitting it, but he'd been wrong. Regardless of how irritating and incompetent the man was, he could not have achieved so lofty a rank without being squarely in the Emperor's favor. His master would not be pleased.

But he had known and considered that factor before wringing the life and breath out of the odious admiral. At the moment, it had simply paled before his overwhelming anger and frustration. Neither of which had had all that much to do with Ozzel—no, his black mood found its origin in another quarter entirely.

For the past month, there had been no sign of his young son—no sighting of the ship on which he had fled, nor of Han Solo, nor of the anonymous Rebel who had had the gall to lead the breakout. Not even Baranne could discover anything, though Vader well knew the man had been slaving tirelessly, leaving no crevice unexamined.

The pain of being so close, of actually _touching_ his boy, of feeling wholeness for the first time since Padme's death—only to lose it almost immediately—it was easily as excruciating in its own way as his injuries on Mustafar had been. And besides his personal agony, the dark lord found himself absolutely racked with parental worry over Luke. The boy was wandering who knew where in the galaxy, in the highly doubtful companionship of the teenage Corellian Han Solo and a blasted nameless _Rebel_. There was no end to the traps and travails he could fall prey to…

He had tried twice to banish that worry—Sith lords did _not_ worry, and certainly not this compulsively—and twice had failed. He had not made a third effort to date. Force; he was beginning to be disgusted with himself. These days he was about as talented a Sith as he had been a Jedi; if there was anything Vader hated it was ambiguity.

But the worry clearly would not leave him until his son was again safely in his hands; in the meantime the dark lord sought desperately to find the child by one means or another. He searched as feverishly through the Force as he did in the physical realm, reaching out and calling for the boy, over and over, night and day…though he knew that even in the miraculous event that the little one should hear him, there would be no response, and certainly not that re-connection he so longed for.

He seated himself in his hyperbaric chamber and waited while the chamber sealed and pressurized, and the machinery removed his mask and armor. In fact, if he thought about it, he didn't _want_ their bond to arise again, not under these circumstances. Luke had only dropped his shields and drawn on the Force before because he was desperate to escape what he thought was mortal danger—obviously it was not to be desired that the boy fall into danger again.

The mask lifted away, and the cool air of the chamber brushed against his scarred face. Vader drew in a quiet breath, careful not to strain himself, and laughed bitterly to himself. What his enemies would say if they knew how vulnerable he really was! He found himself momentarily amused by imagining what, for example, Prince Xizor's expression would be should the head of Black Sun view his mortal enemy right now. Then he remembered—firstly that Padme had been the one to introduce him to those games of imagination, during that first flight from Tatooine to Coruscant; and secondly that his child was missing and wandering unprotected through the galaxy in terror of his own father.

Sobered, he stared down at his gloved hands, in his mind's eye again holding his son.

After a time his reflections grew too wearisome; Vader turned to sleep. At least there were no longer any nightmares to disrupt him.

_The outer rim, on Dantooine_…

"Daddy, are we waiting for someone?"

Leia stood impatiently beside her father on the landing pad, where he had ordered their shuttle delayed indefinitely.

"Yes," he said simply. "One of my acquaintances in the relief program has two relatives on Dantooine who were planning a trip to Alderaan. I offered to bring them with us. It seems they're running a little late."

Leia sighed irritably. It was getting late and she was tired; she wanted to get up to the ship and go to bed, not stand around waiting for more guests. She was sick of being polite just now.

Her father glanced at her, but he didn't reprove her for her inhospitable attitude. He seemed very distracted. She thought he might even be nervous about something—but her father was a politician, very good at hiding what he felt, and she could hardly ever be sure. Eventually he sighed himself and stroked her hair.

"I know you're tired, princess," he said. "So am I."

They both turned quickly as they heard a door opening behind them; the lighting could have been much better, but Leia recognized her father's security officer. Following the man were the two boys. The taller one was walking in front with a wary expression, carrying two plain packing cases; behind him the shorter one was hauling a backpack rather too large for his slight frame.

"Senator, the boys," his officer gestured, bringing them up to Leia and her father.

"Thank you, Raymus," Bail said. "Hello again, Luke—and you must be Han."

"Yeah," the older boy said, gripping her father's hand with a look of the utmost reservation. Leia frowned to herself, disliking him already for not trusting her father, but her father either didn't notice or elected to ignore this Han's lack of proper sentiment.

"Boys," he said, "this is my daughter, Leia. Leia, meet Han and Luke Solo."

Both of them straightened up when they saw Leia.

"Good evening," she said, much more politely than she felt.

The boys glanced at each other, and then edged into the light of the ship's landing lights to shake her hand—and Leia started as she saw their faces for the first time.

They were the boys from her dream! The ones she had seen wandering alone, through the dark, shadowy city streets. And they were just as she had seen them so many times in her dreams—the younger one, blond, wearing that worn-out green jumpsuit, and the taller dark one in his plain shirt and trousers.

She shook both their hands breathlessly, fighting not to betray that anything was amiss. Neither her father nor the taller boy Han nor the security officer noticed her inner distress. But the younger one, Luke—he was her age—their eyes met suddenly as they followed the others up the boarding ramp, and she saw in an instant that he was as startled as she.

…

"Han, I'd like to speak with you, if you don't mind," Bail immediately announced once they were aboard the _Tantive IV_.

"Uh—sure," Han said, glancing back at Luke a little nervously. Bail's opinion of him rose just a little bit. The boy might have all the hallmarks of a street rat, but he seemed dedicated to taking care of his "brother."

"I'll have one of my guards take Luke and your luggage to the guest quarters," the senator continued.

"I'll take him, Daddy," Leia spoke up. Bail turned with a sinking sensation in his stomach. Of all times for his daughter to be struck with a spirit of contrition for her earlier irritability! The _last_ thing he wanted was to leave the twins alone together—he had hoped that for the duration of the trip he would be able to keep them mostly separate. He had not the faintest idea what might happen—no conception whatever of the dynamics which could be at work between Force-sensitive twins.

But what was he to say? _No, Leia, I don't want you to be hospitable right now?_ Hardly. He put on a pleased smile.

"Thank you, Leia," he said instead, praying nothing would happen.

…

Darth Vader was stalking the _Executor'_s bridge, trying to alleviate his black mood with the amusing pastime of terrorizing his crew, when he became aware of a growing bright presence in the Force. Could it—surely not—

Brighter, brighter—and suddenly a connection flared between the two of them.

_Child!_ was his first thought, joy his first sensation—but suspicion quickly followed. There was something different about Luke's presence, something that struck him as distinctly unlike the boy. He seemed…fierier than before, yet at the same time softer. It almost reminded him of the subtle differences between Sara and Sandra's presences—so similar, but not quite the same.

But _that_ of course was impossible! The very thought of the astronomical odds against the same two people producing two sets of twins—it was so remote as to be virtually impossible. This must just be a distortion, a side effect of the distance between them. And the boy was obviously at a very great distance, for he had not yet realized there was a connection, however faint. He might be precocious, but he had much yet to learn.

Abruptly Vader felt a flash of dread, fear that the boy might be distracted by some danger—he stretched out quickly to check. But there was no indication of danger—in fact, he was receiving almost a sense of passiveness from the other end of the bond. Sleepiness, even.

Perhaps the boy had somehow lost control of his shields in his sleep?

Vader shook aside his ponderings. He was wasting precious time—he had to locate the child, as quickly as possible.

It did not take him long. Indeed the boy was very far away—in the Outer Rim. He strode briskly over to a control panel and brought up a galactic map, quickly plotting out the distance and trajectory…

Dantooine. That was the system—but even as he decided on it, the distance between them began a rapid change. So…on a ship, in hyperspace. But going where?

Fortunately, he could still sense that young presence. Luke _must_ be asleep not to have noticed him by now. Well—he would not hazard his contact with the boy with any deliberate action. He would watch from a safe distance and track Luke as long as he could—and follow.

"Captain Piett," he snapped briskly.

The captain was prompt as ever, though decidedly nervous. "Yes, my lord?"

"Get me Admiral Drean. We have a course change to make."

_Less than a week later…_

Vader swept like black lightning into his quarters and sealed himself away into his hyperbaric chamber, switching on its broad holoscreen.

Baranne—as he'd been expecting since dispatching the man to Dantooine to see what he could possibly turn up.

"My lord," the agent nodded, with all his usual equanimity.

"I trust you have something to report?"

"For once, my lord," Baranne said wryly, flipping out his dossier. It had indeed been some time since the agent had met with any success. "Your guess seems to have been correct. I have retrieved a security recording from the capital spaceport on Dantooine, firstly." He switched on a holoprojector.

There was not much—just an overhead view of a uniformed man escorting two boys into the spaceport. But the shorter one made the mistake of glancing slightly up—just enough that Vader could see his profile and recognize the young face.

It was indeed his son.

"This is the boy you are looking for?" the agent asked.

For having nothing but Vader's description to go on, Baranne had certainly done well. "It is him," Vader confirmed.

Baranne nodded. "There were no other recordings that I could find," he continued. "I was unable to trace the ship on which he might have departed; there were nearly thirty that night, due to refugee relief operations."

But Vader didn't need to know what ship it had been—the boy's presence had long been stationary, and he had tracked the new location. "Were there any that departed for Alderaan?" he rumbled.

Baranne snorted. "Practically all of them. The relief organization was based from there. However, my lord, I have a more pressing discovery I would like to deal with quickly. At the spaceport, I located a YT-1300 matching the description of the ship that broke the quarantine at Coruscant. This ship is very shortly bound for Alderaan to be returned to its owner, who reportedly left it behind for repairs."

Vader stiffened, catching Baranne's train of thought immediately. "You think to let the ship lead us to the boy?"

Baranne nodded. "It would have to be carefully handled…and there will be costs involved."

"Costs?"

"If the operation is to remain successful, we will require the cooperation of the original pilot," Baranne said slowly.

"The pilot is of no concern to me." Vader remained silent for a time, pondering. If he handled this properly, he might be able to retrieve his son easily and quietly. But only if he was very, very careful and thorough…he did not trust ordinary stormtroopers to deal effectively with a desperate young Jedi apprentice. There was no telling what the boy might manage to do. And neither did he wish to traumatize his son.

"You have stormtroopers at your disposal?" he said finally.

"One squadron, my lord."

"Get them quietly aboard the freighter," he ordered, "and make sure you capture the pilot. We will discuss technicalities when you have secured the vessel."

_Some time later, on Alderaan…_

The past couple weeks had done a lot to calm Han's nerves. He and Luke were now safely sequestered away in a fairly remote city on Alderaan, hidden in a Rebel safe house—absolutely nothing had happened. Life was starting to settle down, and so was the kid. He had a feeling he'd be getting real bored real soon, but for now he just planned to enjoy the general stressless-ness.

Besides, they'd be gettin' a little bit of excitement today. His ship was due for arrival at the local spaceport. He and Luke had already been given the go-ahead to take a landspeeder out there to give the _Falcon_ a once-over and pick up the rest of their stuff and fix anything that needed fixing and so on.

These Rebel fellows weren't half bad, all things considered—but Han would be sent to all nine hells of Corellia before he'd take up their crazy cause. Nobody in their right mind went up against the Empire, not if they had a choice about it. Himself, now, he hadn't really had much of choice back there on Corellia. For cryin' out loud, it wasn't like he could leave the kid to die—which was what would happen to Luke if the Empire ever got its act together. He'd gotten nightmares about how close a shave they'd had back on Coruscant, with Vader.

Kreth, but that man was scary.

Anyway, aside from their crazy collective suicidal obsessions, the Rebels here weren't stupid, especially not about security. They were pretty vigilant when it came to that. Since their arrival, Han didn't think they'd been let out of the safe zone more than twice—he'd gotten himself a sound lecture the first time he did it. That was going to get old fast. It was already getting a bit old, especially for two boys who'd been used to gallivanting around the galaxy at random in their own ship. Which was why both of them were excited about the prospect of getting out on their own for a little bit.

As soon as the safe house received confirmation that the freighter had put down safely, and had passed all the password clearances, Han and Luke snatched the landspeeder up and set out. It was maybe twenty minutes to the spaceport, if you flew by the most direct path—but of course they didn't do that…

"Here, kid, your turn," Han announced after they had taken a daredevil route skimming the treetops of a local park. "See how close you can get without hittin' the top."

"Closer than you," he scoffed as they switched seats.

"Oh, yeah? Prove it, kid!"

It was, all in all, much longer than twenty minutes before the two arrived at the spaceport and slipped in to the proper hangar.

There she was, just as Han had reluctantly left her on Dantooine, all in one beat-up piece. The landing ramp was down; the pilot who'd brought her had said that he would wait with the ship until they arrived. He must be inside.

"Come on, kid, let's go make sure whoever it was didn't bang her up inside," Han said lightly, starting towards the ship.

But Luke hung back, with a strange look on his face. Han stopped and turned back around to him.

"What're you waitin' for?"

Luke shook his head. "I don't know. It doesn't feel safe."

"Kid, it's fine. The guys at the house know whoever was piloting. They double-checked voice signatures and everything. There's nothin' to worry about. Stop freakin' out."

Luke sighed and reluctantly followed Han up the ramp.

…

"Hello?" Han called, heading through the rec room towards the cockpit. The pilot hadn't answered so far; but the cockpit was a ways off from the other parts of the ship, so it wasn't much wonder. And if the guy had any sense at all, he'd be in the cockpit where he could control all the systems in case of some sort of emergency.

Han had just reached the sealed cockpit door when he realized that there weren't any footsteps behind him. He spun around. The corridor was empty behind him.

"Kid?"

…

Luke did not feel any easier of mind as he followed Han inside the ship, but his reason told him he had no cause for fear. Identities had been checked and double-checked. There was no danger lurking aboard—and besides that, Jedi were not supposed to succumb to fear. So he went after Han through the rec room.

Wait—hadn't he left his data pad in the rec room? Yes, yes he had, on top of the game table. He glanced aside, reaching out for it…

But it wasn't there. He frowned, stopped, and bent over to look under the table in case it had somehow slid beneath the benches. Sure enough, he could see it back beneath the seats. He lowered himself down smoothly onto his stomach and stretched out his arm beneath the bottom…

There! His fingers found purchase on the edge of the device and he worked it back out from its nook. Slowly he stood, brushing motes of dust off the smooth shining face.

A frown worked across his features as he rubbed at the cover. There was some sort of smudge that wouldn't go away.

Wait—it was _moving_—

He whirled, but didn't have the chance to scream.

…

Han had just made up his mind to head back down the corridor and look for Luke when a shot rang out through the ship.

"Luke!" The young Corellian ripped his blaster from its holster, preparing to dash back down the corridor to the rec room—but a hand suddenly grabbed him from behind, and he whirled to find himself staring up at an unmistakable white helmet with black eyeplates.

Han swore a blue streak and fired dead center into the man's chest at point-blank range. The stormtrooper crumpled instantly, but there was one right behind him—Han snapped his blaster back up desperately, and by a miracle got off his shot first. Terrified, he ducked and fired several more times through the cockpit door—but that seemed to be all of them right here.

Han turned around and raced down the corridor into the rec room, just in time to see troopers heading his way.

Lots of troopers.

He got off a few more shots before the stun blasts hit him.


	13. Resistence, Revelations, and Reactions

Author's Note: Thank you for all of the positive reviews! I appreciate them greatly. As I promised you reviewers, here is the next update, pretty soon for my pace of working…I hope you will enjoy it. Apologies for the cliffhanger. 

…

Baranne heaved a great sigh of relief as the freighter lifted easily back out of the hangar and up through the Alderaan atmosphere. They had taken some losses—two of his men were dead, quite a high price for the capture of two supposedly helpless teenage boys—but such was the lot of a soldier, and if his employer felt the sacrifice worth it, then it was worth it as far as Baranne was concerned. The objective was accomplished; that was all that mattered.

He left the flying to the stormtroopers, as before, and set himself to personally keeping watch over the small inert form of the boy ostensibly named Luke Skywalker. He had administered a hypodermic as soon as the boy had been downed by the stun blast, to ensure that the child would not awaken quickly. It was Vader's explicit direction that he keep the boy unconscious; the Sith lord had emphasized the danger the boy's Force powers might present should he regain awareness.

Thoughtfully the agent studied his quarry of nine months. It was truly impressive that the child had managed to evade the Empire for so long, considering how scant his resources and knowledge were. What a pity that he should be Force sensitive. Baranne knew as well as the next man the Empire's policy regarding such beings, and he suffered no illusions about the boy's probable fate. Vader would pick the boy's brain for anything he might know about hidden Jedi elsewhere, and then kill him.

It was really a great shame. He was such a clever, bold youngster.

But the boy's fate was out of his hands. It was his duty to deliver this child to Lord Vader. What became of young Luke Skywalker thereafter was not his concern.

…

_How long have I been asleep?_ Luke blinked slowly, once—and then his mind caught up with him. Quickly he closed his eyes again, holding as still as possible. There was a man standing over him—Luke could sense him—he was watching. And Luke did not want to be hit with a second stun blast.

Instead he laid still and thought. His hands were not tied, his feet weren't tied—someone had just stretched him out on a deck somewhere, on his back. He could feel a heavy thrumming through the deck plating—a hyperdrive running. And not just any hyperdrive. He could tell them apart—this one ran at a high, strong pitch. It was definitely a Sienar beta drive.

But he'd been shot by a stormtrooper—there was no telling if he was on the _Falcon_ or on some Imperial shuttle. At least there couldn't be that many people aboard if it was a shuttle—no more than ten, counting him. Cautiously, Luke stretched out with the Force to see how many people there were.

He felt a quick rush of relief as he recognized Han not far off, unconscious, but his exuberance was short-lived. There were nine other people on the ship. There was nothing special about eight of them—but the man over him radiated sharp intelligence and alertness. Luke wasn't going to be sneaking away from him anytime soon. Unless he could distract the guy…

…

Baranne started at a sudden clatter from the corner. In spite of himself he glanced quickly to the side and saw—

Saw a blur of movement right behind him only barely in time to turn—only just got his arm up fast enough—

He stumbled as a painful kick hammered into his arm. There was a sickening crack from that general direction, but neither Baranne nor Luke stopped to pay it any attention. Luke was already swinging in another blow; kreth, this boy was fast! Baranne managed to catch the boy's hand and wrench his arm down hard at a nasty angle—he felt something give and knew the boy had been hurt.

But it didn't stop him—Luke spun and struck out with another athletic kick, landing it squarely against the agent's skull—the world immediately went black.

…

Luke staggered back as the gray-eyed man collapsed unconscious to the floor, reaching up to his right shoulder as the pain began to come. He didn't know what had happened to the arm, but he'd felt something wrench the wrong way, and it _hurt_.

Suddenly the noise of footsteps came to him from the cockpit corridor. Stormtroopers! Luke dashed out of the rec room and into the first door he could lock—the bunkroom. He sealed the lock and leaned trembling against the door, the pain in his arm already forgotten. What was he going to do? There wasn't anywhere he could hide on the ship, not for long. And the only spare blasters were kept in the cockpit.

Despairing, Luke cast his gaze around the bunkroom. There was only one of their cases inside, sitting on top of a bunk. Maybe there'd be something heavy he could throw inside it. He eased across the room, keeping as silent as possible, and eased the lid off. He very nearly burst into tears when he saw what was inside. Clothes—Obi-Wan's.

And data chips and a training remote.

Well—maybe he could throw the training remote—and there was a heavy-looking container. Luke reached out and hefted it; it wasn't that heavy. But it might disorient a stormtrooper if it hit him hard in the helmet. It might…

Absently he pressed the biometric lock with his thumb, not expecting anything—but miraculously, the lock spun into the open position. Luke quickly flipped up the lid—

_Thank the Force! _It was a lightsaber! There were some other things inside the container, paper he saw, but he didn't have time. Luke whipped the lightsaber out of the box with his good arm and flicked it on at full power. Immediately a full-length ice-blue blade ignited, sending off its lethal hum. Luke could have wept tears of relief. Experimentally he flicked it towards a wall. Just as it was supposed to, the blade sliced a cauterized slash through the bulkhead plating.

"Open up, boy!" Pounding started on the bunkroom door.

Luke snapped the lightsaber up into a classic guard. _Let's see who hits who with a stun blast, buster!_

…

Baranne groaned as the world spun back into focus—before his eyes a blur of black and white swam lazily. There seemed to be a sort of mumbling going on…

"…right, sir?" His ears had finally begun working again. In fact all his senses were coming to, and the next thing he noticed was a very, very bad headache, followed by the throbbing pain in his arm.

Serve that blasted boy right when Vader got hold of him.

"Are you all right, sir?" the voice repeated. Wincing at the light, Baranne looked up—a stormtrooper was bent over him, one hand offered. He took it with his good arm.

"Well enough," he said dourly. There would be no fixing his condition until they got to the _Executor_. The sound of blaster fire came to his ears. "What's happening?"

"The boy's got himself barricaded in the bunkroom," another trooper reported from across the room. "My men are blasting out the door."

"Just make sure you don't kill him," Baranne said irritably. "What about the other prisoner?"

"Still out, sir."

"Keep him that way." One boy was plenty to keep them busy without throwing another hothead into the mix. Kreth if this wasn't starting to feel like Krytoa again…except thus far, Luke Skywalker was doing a much better job of resisting arrest than Owen and Beru Lars had managed.

A minor explosion went off down the back corridor.

"Stun only, stun only!" somebody called—shots fired—

Panicked shouts suddenly broke out, and Baranne stiffened as he saw several stormtroopers come retreating down the corridor. "Target is armed, repeat, target is armed…"

"Armed with what?" Baranne demanded of the squad leader.

"Sir, it appears to be some kind of terminated laser beam," the stormtrooper in question responded.

Terminated laser beam? What in the galaxy…?

The troopers regrouped and the commotion quieted—and as the noise decreased, a new sound became prominent…a low, ominous hum.

Baranne swore under his breath. Of course. "It's a lightsaber," he said darkly. Chaos take the child, was there no end to the tricks he could pull out of his sleeve? The ship had been searched for weapons twice over!

"How much longer till we rendezvous with the _Executor_?" he asked, bringing himself rigidly back under control.

"Five minutes, sir."

Good. Inside of ten minutes, Vader could be aboard to handle this wild, unpredictable Jedi youngster. They only had to contain him for a short while.

"Keep him penned inside that bunkroom," Baranne ordered. "Don't let him near any critical machinery. And keep clear of that lightsaber."

…

Vader paced impatiently back and forth on the bridge. Due to the sensitive nature of this operation, he had not been willing to risk any communication between himself and Baranne until the freighter was safely in the _Executor_'s hangar and the warship had leapt back into hyperspace.

As per their plan, Baranne had taken control of the freighter on Dantooine, and…_convinced_ the pilot to cooperate with his troops. If all had proceeded properly, the pilot would have gotten them smoothly down to the destination on Alderaan, where Baranne would have promptly disposed of him, and when his son and young Han Solo appeared to reclaim the craft, Baranne's men should have stunned both, collected them safely aboard the ship, and immediately left system. Vader was waiting with the _Executor_ a very brief jump away, no more than half a lightyear.

They could be arriving any minute. There was no telling how long it might take once the freighter reached Alderaan for the boys to make their appearance at the ship; conceivably he might be waiting days—

"Sir, unidentified freighter has arrived in system," a voice sang out from one of the crew pits. "Commencing challenge."

Almost the same moment Captain Piett appeared. "My lord, a communication from the freighter. Your agent requests to speak with you."

Vader made quick time to his bridge console. Baranne's harried visage promptly flickered onto the screen.

"My lord, I'm afraid we have something of a situation on our hands," he said without his usual preamble. "It will be necessary for you to meet us immediately at the hangar. We have an armed Jedi apprentice on the loose, and quite frankly he's wreaking havoc."

"Armed?"

"Yes, my lord, he's managed to scrounge up a lightsaber from somewhere on board," Baranne all but growled. "My men are trying to contain him in a corridor and keep him from the escape pods."

Vader whirled to Piett. "Tractor that freighter into our fore hangar bay, quickly," he ordered. "I want a squadron standing by. The minute that ship is aboard, take us back into hyperspace."

"Yes, my lord."

Vader cut the communication and sped to the fore hangar bay, which was closest to the bridge. He was just in time to see the freighter being towed in for a smooth landing. There was no outward indication of the turbulent atmosphere within the ship—but Vader could sense the commotion. And more importantly, he could sense his desperate, frightened, determined son within.

As the landing ramp extended, the hangar gates sealed; Vader felt a shudder through his bootsoles as the great Star Destroyer leapt back into hyperspace. Increasingly impatient, he was halfway up the ramp before it had even touched the deck. Following the leading of the Force, he turned down the left corridor and met Baranne leaning against the bulkhead in an open recreation cabin.

"He's down that corridor," the agent said, rubbing the side of his head.

"Did you not drug him?" Vader snapped in annoyance.

"I did. Apparently it doesn't last nearly as long on him as it should."

A string of Huttese curses flashed through the dark lord's mind. Of course—he should have expected it. Padme, as a significant political figure, had been immunized against such standard drugs and poisons (one reason why bounty hunters had resorted to such creative assassination methods as the insectoid kouhouns). Naturally something of that immunization would have been passed on to her son. He was an imbecile for not foreseeing that.

Well, the damage was done. He had hoped that their meeting would be much quieter, such as being with his son when the boy awakened—he especially had wanted to avoid meeting the boy with ignited lightsabers between them. But it seemed there was to be no avoiding it.

"Pull your men out of the ship," Vader ordered. "I will deal with the child myself."

Baranne gave a wry half-smile. "I was hoping so, my lord."

…

Luke edged up a little from his defensive crouch as the blasters ceased to fire at him. There was one trooper lying stunned in the hall outside, but other than that all of them had retreated. _Why did they leave?_

He knew that the ship had come out of hyperspace a few minutes ago—was there a chance he could make a dodge now for an escape pod?

No—that was a bad idea. Han was still on board, for starters—and then there was the fact that the pods didn't even have so much as a laser pointer, whereas the ship he would be trying to get away from had two quad cannons and a tractor beam. He was better off where he was—

That was when his danger sense went off. Tingles went down his spine, his stomach did a flip, he knew all the signs much too well. Dreading, he stretched out with the Force…

Terror flooded him, turning his muscles into goo, as he realized just why the troopers had fallen back. In another second, the ominous hiss in, hiss out of Darth Vader's respirator came clearly to his ears.

Whimpering softly, Luke backed further into the bunkroom. He had nowhere to run to, not unless he tried slicing his way through the bulkhead, which would take too long. Not that it would probably matter—if Obi-Wan hadn't been able to survive a lightsaber duel with this monster, a thirteen-year-old half-trained apprentice with a bad sword arm and an unfamiliar weapon didn't have a prayer.

_Obi-Wan, Obi-Wan…Father…Father, help me, Father…_

…

Vader stopped just before the doorway, sensing his terrified son ensconced within, hearing the hum of the lightsaber he had found. What would be the best way to approach the child? He wanted to avoid any occurrence of conflict—and of course he must be very careful not to harm his precious son…

…_Father…help me…Father…_

The cry came strongly to him through the Force, laden with terror—and pain. Vader stiffened. Was the young one injured? If so, someone's head would roll for it…

_Son, I'm here_, he called back gently. _I'm here. It's all right. Don't be afraid._

A soft, disbelieving curiosity answered him—for the first time his son reached out to him. The boy immediately recoiled as he realized who had spoken to him, though. Vader was surprised to feel a surge of frustration and rising anger from the boy.

It was time to end this stressful suspense. Vader moved forward into the doorway.

Luke was there, all right, back in the scant open space of the room, crouched down with his lightsaber held up in a standard guard position. He was shrewd to stay low, but in the end it would not matter. There would be no fighting. Vader did not reach for his lightsaber. Very, very carefully, the dark lord moved into the room.

He noticed the boy trembling slightly—whether with adrenaline or fear he could not tell. More telling was the fact that he held the blade with only one hand—and his left one, at that. Was the right arm injured?

A fresh cry of fear burst from his son in the Force, stark contrast to his defiant posture. _Father! _

It was becoming clear that the boy did not know who, precisely, his father was—otherwise he certainly would not have continued crying out to the very object of his terror. "Luke, it's all right," he rumbled, as gently as he could. "You are in no danger, child."

Luke didn't answer. He clearly regarded the words as a ploy to lure him into lowering his guard.

Vader went so far as to raise his hands. "I will not hurt you, Luke," he said. "Turn off the lightsaber."

Luke shook his head fiercely from behind the shimmering blue blade.

Vader sighed and reached for his own lightsaber. Luke tensed sharply, ready to block—but Vader tossed the hilt behind him out into the corridor. "I am unarmed, young one," he said, spreading out his hands to show that he was hiding no other weapons. "I do not want a fight. Turn off the lightsaber."

The blade lowered just a little, but Luke was nowhere close to turning the thing off. "What do you want?" he asked softly.

"You, child."

The blade immediately snapped back up. "You're going to kill me," came a whisper of deafening certainty.

"No. You will not be killed—or hurt."

"I know what you do to Jedi," came the accusing response.

Vader sighed. This could take a long, long time. "You are different from the other Jedi, little one," he answered. "You are the son…the son of Anakin Skywalker."

Luke tensed up—Vader felt that surge of anger again. "My father," the boy snapped furiously, "was a Jedi, and you killed all the Jedi. Why am I different?"

Vader tightened. The boy thought _he_, Vader, was responsible for his father's death? The perverseness of it all sickened him. He _was_ this boy's father! The only thing that assuaged his fury slightly was the realization that Luke only _thought_ this to be true; the boy wasn't certain. It was probably a logical conclusion the boy had drawn from what little he knew.

"Child, I did not kill your father," he said, fighting to keep his demeanor as calm and soothing as possible. "Your father is not dead."

"Liar," the boy said, very matter-of-factly.

"Search me, Luke—am I lying to you?" Vader challenged him. The boy started a little behind his lightsaber; but, curious, he took Vader up on the offer. After a moment his eyes widened—as though he barely dared to hope that this could be true.

"He's alive?" the boy whispered. He was trembling—but certainly not with adrenaline or fear.

"Yes, child," Vader said, seeing an opening. "I…I know your father very well."

"Where is he?" His son's tone was one of deep pleading—the kind of tone Padme had used on Mustafar.

"He is here, Luke," Vader answered. "Right here."

The boy's face remained blank. Enough of this beating about the bush, then.

"Luke, _I_ am your father."

Shock roiled the boy's Force presence, came into stark evidence on his face. "You're lying," he whispered.

"Search your feelings, son," Vader urged him. "You know it to be true."

"No!"

The strength of the outburst startled the dark lord—but more startling was the sudden dash towards him the boy made. It took Vader a moment to comprehend the lad was actually _attacking_ him. But he was not too late to sidestep the strike and catch the boy's wrist. In another second he had twisted the hilt out of Luke's hand and spun the boy back around, pulling the young teenager against his chest and pinning him.

His son struggled violently, kicking and twisting, but to absolutely no avail. Vader's grip was resolute. Careful, of course, but resolute. He held Luke securely with one hand, and hooking the lightsaber to his belt settled the other on the boy's head soothingly. "Calm down, son," he rumbled. "Calm down."

But he was shortly forced to accept that Luke would not be calming down anytime in the near future. And come to think of it, that would make his exit with the boy appear all the more unsuspicious to both the cameras and the men. He did not relish his son's fear, but if it couldn't be gotten rid of, he might as well make use of it.

He began the tedious business of dragging Luke kicking and screaming out of the freighter. He could only pray that such behavior was not typical of teenagers.

…

When Han at last regained consciousness, he soon found himself wishing he hadn't. He woke up to being dragged off of the _Falcon's_ boarding ramp by a cohort of stormtroopers, out into a vast hangar practically crawling with Imperials. They stopped a short distance from the ship, apparently waiting for something—Han turned his head around in all directions, searching for a sign of Luke, but the kid was nowhere to be seen. Kreth—kreth—he had to get the kid, had to get him out of here somehow—doggone it, where was that blasted Antilles when he needed him—

"So—you're this Han Solo," a voice addressed him. Han spun his head back around to find himself staring at a sour-faced man with a scar and gray eyes, holding a cold pack to the side of his head. "I hope for your sake you're not the one who taught your little friend all those tricks of his."

That sounded kind of promisin'. Luke must have put up a pretty good fight somewhere along the line. Han hoped the kid had landed a hard one on this jerk's skull. _Somebody_ sure had.

There was an upwelling of noise from the direction of the freighter—all heads turned towards the ramp. Han's heart sank into the depths of the Coruscant underworld as none other than Darth Vader made his appearance at the top…dragging a kicking, thrashing Luke along with him.

_Sith, kid, you got some kind of nerve_, Han thought, awed that the youngster actually dared to hit and kick _Vader_. Equally mysterious was the fact that Vader never tried to stop Luke from struggling.

"Han!" Luke gave a desperate shout upon seeing him. "Han!"

"Luke!" Han lunged against his guards, but none of them was as lenient as Vader—they clubbed him back with the butts of their blasters.

"Enough," a spine-chilling bass voice spoke. Han shook his head dizzily to refocus. Vader had stopped in front of them, still keeping Luke tightly in his grip—Luke had paused his frantic thrashing and was staring wide-eyed at Han.

"Don't hurt him," Han gasped hoarsely. "Kreth, don't hurt him, please."

Mysteriously, Vader settled his free hand on top of Luke's head, in a manner almost protective. "He is your friend, child?" the Sith rumbled down to Luke.

"Yes," Luke whispered, looking up fearfully.

Vader looked back at Han for a moment longer before speaking. "Captain, when the ship emerges from hyperspace, you will release Solo and restore his freighter to him," he finally told the squad leader. "On the condition, of course, Solo, that you refrain from committing further infractions of Imperial law."

"Kreth, please just don't hurt Luke," Han breathed, hardly hearing a word of anything else.

"Luke will not be harmed," Vader said. As if to contradict him, Luke immediately started to kick and twist again. Vader tightened his grip, seeming almost like an exasperated parent. "Hold Solo here until he can disembark," the dark lord said shortly. And with that, he started to march Luke off again.

"Han!" The frightened cry rang out one more time through the hanger as Luke was dragged off—Han flinched at the last sight of the terrible fear in his young friend's eyes before the doors sealed behind Vader.

…

It was a long, tiresome trek through the ship to Vader's quarters, with his distraught son digging in his heels almost every step of the way. But when they were about three quarters of the way there, the fight finally seeped out of the boy. Resigned at last that his struggles were useless, Luke stopped writhing and let his father take him the rest of the way in comparative peace.

Part of it had to be the boy's growing awareness of his pain—the sense of it had become much stronger along the way. It was definitely coming from that right arm. As soon as he had the boy inside his quarters, out of range of security devices, Vader began examining the limb in question.

Luke's emotional confusion was a twisting disturbance in the Force, but the boy stayed mostly quiet. He was in a state of shock, which together with the pain of his injury was strong enough to overwhelm the fear that still haunted him—otherwise the boy would surely have fled to the opposite side of the room the moment Vader let go of him. As it was, he stood still while his arm was checked, watching distantly.

He didn't react as Vader checked his lower arm and moved on past the elbow, but he whimpered and shifted on his feet when his upper arm was reached. It must either be a dislocation or a torn muscle.

"What happened to you?" Vader asked, trying to distract his son from the pain as he felt carefully around the small shoulder.

The boy glanced up at him, biting his lip. "It—it got wrenched."

"How?" The arm was not dislocated—the muscle, then. He shifted his attention appropriately.

Luke hesitated, then yelped as his fingers pressed too hard at a particularly sensitive point. There it was—Vader immediately took the boy's left hand and squeezed to distract him again. "How did it get wrenched?" he repeated.

"I—I was—"

"Trying to get away?" Vader suggested. Luke hesitated, but finally nodded.

"From the man with the gray eyes," he said.

Vader's hold on the boy's hand tightened. "He did this to you?"

"Well—he was trying to keep me from socking him," Luke mumbled. "And I kicked him first. And I knocked him out after."

"Good boy," Vader said firmly. Baranne was a shrewd and useful man, but _no one_ hurt his son with impunity. It seemed that Luke had made sure the man paid for the mistake.

Luke frowned. "Good? I think I broke his arm."

"He tore the muscle in yours, son," Vader said dryly. "It seems to be a fair exchange." He straightened. "You'll need to see a medic."

Despite his situation, Luke's response was classic. "Do I _have_ to?"

"Would you rather wait several months for the muscle to repair itself?"

"No," Luke said quickly. Vader summoned his personal medic up. The two of them were left to wait in extremely uncomfortable silence for the man's arrival.

"Do you have any questions, son?" Vader asked him finally. He could sense rampant confusion from the young one; perhaps some of that turmoil could be alleviated.

Luke's eyes flashed defiance and he backed away a few steps. "I'm _not_ your son."

"You _are_ my son," Vader told him flatly. "I will have the medic run a blood test if you desire."

"Anybody can fake test results."

Quite true. Vader sighed wearily, but his sudden awareness of the approaching medic put a temporary stop to his efforts at finding a convincing argument. He strode quickly towards the boy. Luke, fear renewed, scrambled backwards, but he didn't get enough of a head start. Vader caught him by his good arm and pulled him in swiftly. "Behave," he ordered when Luke started to struggle again.

Unfortunately, Luke had far too much of his father in him to do things the easy way. In the end Vader had to lift the boy entirely in order to restrain his thrashing. He quickly regretted it when a fresh stab of fear burst from his son; the fierce struggling gave way to worse trembling. Gently he lowered Luke back to the deck, unwilling to frighten him that much—struggles were preferable.

Luke's fear eased, but he was enough affected that he did not resist any more.

The door hissed open to admit the medic, a fellow by the name of Siler—no relation to the deceased admiral of the same name, luckily for his health. He raised his somewhat bushy eyebrows at the scene in front of him.

"The boy, I presume?" he said.

"Yes," Vader said, directing his subdued son to the man. "His right bicep is torn."

The medic nodded, but didn't address him again. "Well, son, I'm sure that hurts," he said, taking Luke by the shoulder and moving him over beside the bag. Vader watched cautiously, but Luke was as compliant as he could have asked. He let Siler sit him down in a chair and examine the wounded arm.

"It's torn, all right," the medic announced shortly. "Easy there, son. I know it hurts." Luke was shifting on the chair and biting his lip. Instinctively, Vader settled a soothing hand on the boy's shoulder. His son glanced up with wide eyes.

"Just give me a minute and I'll find some painkiller for that," Siler said, leaning down and rummaging through his bag. "My lord, if you wouldn't mind, I'll need the sleeve to be out of the way."

Anybody else—well, excluding Palpatine—would have gotten a strangling for addressing Vader thus; but Siler had been his medic for a long time, beginning shortly after Mustafar. He was one of the very few that Vader trusted. The dark lord reached down and unzipped the boy's jumpsuit far enough to work his arm out of the sleeve. He had a shirt on underneath as well, but the short sleeve was easily rolled up out of the way.

Siler re-emerged from his bag with a long hypodermic needle in hand. "This will probably hurt," he said, "but the painkiller will kick in very soon, I promise." He gave Luke an encouraging smile. Vader tightened his grip on his son's shoulder as the medic moved to inject the painkiller.

Luke gave a choked whimper despite his best efforts at bravery. Vader could feel his heightened pain through the tension in his shoulders—but as promised, the painkiller went to work immediately. Luke soon relaxed as his arm went totally numb.

_Is that better?_ Vader asked him.

Luke glanced up at him again. _Yeah,_ he answered hesitantly.

Siler was pulling on gloves and whipping out sanitizers, daubing the boy's arm clean. "Now, what I'm going to do is pull your muscle tissue back together," he said briskly to Luke. "We've got a bonesetter here to do it without slicing your arm open. Once everything's lined up properly, the bonesetter will fuse the tissue back together, and I'll give you a couple more injections to help the muscle heal up. All right?"

Luke nodded firmly, but Vader wasn't fooled. He could sense the child's nervousness.

_It won't hurt, Luke_.

His son's anxiety spiked anyway when Siler picked up the bonesetter to begin work. That instinctive cry went up again in the Force. _Father!_

_I'm here, my son._

…

_Well, at least that time he wasn't lying_, Luke thought afterwards as the odd medic made his exit. He glanced down at his bandaged arm. There was a long, thin wound through his arm underneath the bacta wrap, left by the bonesetter's fusing laser, but he hadn't felt anything at all.

"I told you it would not be painful," his captor rumbled at him. Luke shivered. He could almost feel that deep bass voice in his spine.

"Stop reading my mind," he whispered despairingly. He thought tiredly about trying to raise his mental shields again—but there was no point in hiding any more, and it would take too much effort, and he felt like the _Falcon_ had looked the first time he saw the decrepit thing sitting in its hangar on Corellia.

He shuddered as a heavy black hand settled down again on the shoulder that wasn't numb. "I am not reading your mind, child," the Sith denied. "You are broadcasting your thoughts."

Crap. Was he really that tired? Obi-Wan had gotten on him so many times for not being careful about containing his thoughts, that now he could even do it when he dreamed. He must be really, really tired to be messing up now and not even realizing it. Luke gave a heavy, resigned sigh.

"You're tired," Vader said, tilting his helmet at him.

Luke thought about protesting, but he was too worn out to come up with something to say. It was easier to just nod.

"You have had a hard day," Vader continued. The other big, heavy hand reached up to brush his hair back out of his eyes where it had fallen. "Come. It is time you slept."

Luke felt the hand move around and down and press on his back, coaxing him forward. He didn't have the strength left to struggle again. They wound through a couple of doors and cabins until all of a sudden there was a cot in front of him. Luke needed no further prompting to curl himself up on top and hope that when he woke up, all of this would be a bad dream.

…

It was harder than he'd thought to fly this crate by himself.

Han Solo sat numbly in the cockpit of the _Millennium Falcon_, staring at the vacant copilot's chair next to him. He couldn't look anywhere without wondering where Luke had gone, and that made him remember things—and dear krethin' Force, he didn't want to remember anything. Especially not the look on Luke's face or his desperately grasping hand. Especially not that, because it made him think about what was probably happening to his young friend now.

Force, anything but that.

Han tried to take some reassurance from what Vader had said. _Luke will not be harmed_. And Vader hadn't been hurting the kid, at least not then—Luke hadn't even been handcuffed, and Vader had set his hand on top of the boy's head almost protectively. The more Han thought about it, the more it looked like Vader had actually been very careful to _not_ hurt Luke.

But why in the _galaxy_ would Vader want him, then? The kid was a Jedi—half a Jedi, anyway—and Vader was the guy who killed Jedi, no matter how old they were. Han couldn't think of a reason for him to want to keep a Jedi apprentice alive and healthy. Did it have something to do with the old man?

_Kreth, kid, I have to get you out of there_, he thought helplessly. But how could he manage that? The only person he knew was Lando Calrissian—and fat chance of him asking that jerk for help a second time. The last time he'd tried, it had landed them in a detention block on Coruscant getting interrogated by Darth Vader.

_There's the Rebels_. Han immediately rebelled himself at the idea. Messing around with the Rebellion had gotten Luke where he was now!

…Hadn't it?

His conversation with Bail Organa that first night on the _Tantive IV_ came back to him.

_If you ever need anything, Han, ever need any help, please don't hesitate to ask me_, the senator had said, very intensely.

Bail Organa, the senator from Alderaan…now that was the biggest gun Han could get his hands on. And he sure as heck needed help if he was going to try and rescue Luke.

_Alderaan it is_. Han reached grimly for the nav computer.


	14. Repercussions

Author's Note: At the suggestion of some of my reviewers, I've kept this chapter at a briefer and hopefully more manageable length. Rest assured, there's a whole bunch more written…but this way you get more nuggets more often, right? Right. I'm sorry about all the angst of recent…there's a bit more to wade through, and then there should be some more humorous sections coming up for you. Thanks for reading and especially thanks to those of you who review. If you like the shorter chapter length, tell me…if not, tell me…basically tell me whatever you think about the story. Just be polite, please!

…

Vader felt much as though time had been rewound almost three years to that first night when he had stayed up watching his newborn daughters sleeping soundly in their crib. He withdrew to the other side of the small room until Luke fell asleep, so as not to disturb or unsettle him; it was only a few minutes before the connection between them grew vague and fuzzy. Carefully Vader crossed back to the side of the cot, and even more carefully bent down to touch the boy.

He was definitely asleep.

Vader straightened and watched his son for some time. He must remember to get that dye out of the boy's hair later, when he woke again. And to feed him—chaos take it, he should have done that before putting him to sleep. The boy was surely hungry, if he was anything like Vader remembered himself being as a young teenager. Neither could his son wear that jumpsuit forever. He would have to find clothes that at least approximately fit, until he could get the child safely to Bast Castle.

He sighed. These were only minor considerations. Yes, he had his son safe and whole—but what was he going to do with the child? He would hardly endear himself to the boy by locking him up. Yet if the child was not restrained, he would most likely run. The only way he saw out was to keep Luke with him at all times; but that was infeasible.

Well, if the boy was going to run, he did not dare entrust him to Miyr. The woman would not be able to control Luke as she could his sisters. Bast Castle was out of the question; Luke would have to remain here aboard the _Executor_ with his father. Yet Vader didn't know how long he could keep the boy's existence a secret from his master.

Perhaps he should not try? After all, it was not as though he had been sneaking this little one around behind Palpatine's back. The child had existed well before Darth Vader had sworn any fealty to the Emperor. Any guilt of deception belonged to Palpatine, not to him.

But would his boy be safe if his existence became known to the Emperor? What would Palpatine do? The thought crossed Vader's mind more than once that it might his _own_ life that would be endangered more than his son's; Palpatine could easily decide the child was more manageable and malleable, and that his father could be dispensed with as too great a risk. Or he might decide that the young, energetic, strongly Force-sensitive boy was too great a threat to his own aging person and order the boy destroyed.

Either of which would force Vader into action he did not yet want to take. He was not yet formidable enough to be sure of success in attacking his powerful master; but if Luke's life or his was at stake, he would be compelled to take his chances. And if he fell short…all three of his children might die for the sins of the father.

No. It was too great a risk to reveal his son. He _must_ keep the boy's survival a secret. Decisively, Vader tightened his powerful shields around Luke's bright presence. Luke had done quite a spectacular job of shielding himself, for being so very young, but he could not take the chance that his son might slip. Besides, this way Luke would still be able to use the Force to a degree—a limited degree, but he would be able to practice and advance in his training.

As soon as he was sure he had won his son over, he would send the child to the safety of Bast Castle, until the boy had grown enough to pass for a crewman on the ship. That would be at least four or five years in the future. In four or five years, then, he could begin preparing in earnest to overthrow Palpatine's sadistic rule.

Until then…

_Sleep soundly, my son. All will be well._

He stroked his son once more before leaving the boy to his rest.

…

Leia could tell that her father was very, very upset about something. As usual, they were eating dinner together—well, not quite as usual, since Leia's mother was away at the moment. Normally this was when her father would relax and stop thinking about work for an hour, and when she would stop thinking about school.

But for once Bail was breaking the rule he had imposed upon the rest of his little family. He kept trying to remember to smile at her and talk to her about what had happened during the day, but every few minutes he would forget and sit staring disturbedly into his glass, swirling the wine absently without seeing it. Politely, Leia didn't bring it up—but every now and then his stare switched over to her instead. She was beginning to wonder if _she_ was what he was worried about. But she couldn't imagine why that would be. She hadn't even been bothered by nightmares since coming back from Dantooine.

There was a knock on the door. Usually disturbances at dinnertime made her father irritable, but not this time. "Come in," he said quickly. One of his aides entered.

"Senator, security has apprehended that ship you asked us to watch for," the aide said. "They've brought the passenger to the palace as you requested."

Her father leapt up from the table in a flash. "I'm sorry, Leia," he said tightly. "But this is very important."

"It's fine, Daddy," Leia said softly as he pulled his coat on rapidly. "Can I see you later?"

"Hopefully," her father said. He stopped and kissed her on the top of the head before striding quickly out of the room.

…

Young Han Solo was standing in the corner of Bail's office under the watch of two security officers when Bail arrived in it.

"Dismissed," Bail said without preamble. The officers offered military bows and left. Bail locked the doors of his office and gestured Han into a chair; he sat down opposite after switching off the security recorders from the desk.

"Your ship took off earlier today and leapt out of system, ignoring warnings," he said tightly. "Perhaps you think our efforts to protect you are to be taken lightly? Do you have any idea how many lives you may have risked?"

"I wasn't flying, stang it!" Han shouted, jumping angrily out of his seat. "And I wasn't the one who let stormtroopers sneak onto the ship before she got to Alderaan! You sithin' Rebels pulled that one!"

Bail sucked in his breath. His anger died immediately of the dread that flooded him.

"They stunned both of us and they musta flown my ship out of system with us on it," Han raged on, pacing in helpless fury around his chair and gesturing wildly. "I dunno what all happened but when I woke up they were draggin' me out into a big hangar—and—and Vader was there."

_Well_, Bail thought, _at least the news can't get any _worse_ from here._

"He's got Luke thanks to your people," Han finished, stomping back into his seat and clenching tightly at the armrests of his chair. Then, to himself, softly, "Krethin' sithspawn, he's got Luke…"

"And he just let you go?" Bail said sharply.

Han nodded blankly, his anger spent. "Luke was screamin' at me when—when Vader dragged him out, and the guy stops and asks Luke if we're friends an' he says yes, and just like that he tells 'em to let me go with my ship."

"Did he really," Bail murmured.

"He told me that he wasn't going to hurt Luke," Han added. "Kreth, he's lying though. You gotta help me find him fast—sith, they're going to kill him, I know they will!"

Bail leaned back. "And why would they kill your _brother_ but not even restrain you?"

Han was speechless. He'd totally forgotten about their story.

Bail laughed bitterly. "Han, it's all right. I know the two of you aren't brothers."

"You—you know that?"

"And I know that Luke was Obi-Wan Kenobi's apprentice," Bail continued.

"How do you know?" Han said hoarsely.

"It's a long story, young Han, but I think you need to hear it," Bail said. "You're a part of it now. But what I am going to tell you, you must never repeat to anyone—not even to Luke should you meet him again. Do you understand?"

Han nodded.

"Good. Settle down and relax."

Han did his best to comply.

"Now. You're afraid Vader will kill Luke. I have every reason to believe from what you told me that Luke is in no physical danger." The boy was in several other kinds of danger, but they need not fear his death.

"What are you talkin' about? You know what the Empire does to Jedi!"

"But not this one," Bail said quietly. "This one is very special. Han, Luke's father was a powerful Jedi."

Han jerked upright. "You mean—that Skywalker guy from the Clone Wars?" he said, intrigued.

"Yes, Anakin Skywalker. You've heard of him, I see."

"Just that he could fly." So that was where Luke got his talent from…

"Anakin Skywalker was formerly the apprentice of Obi-Wan Kenobi, whom you met watching over Luke," Bail continued. He paused for a dramatic moment. "Han, Darth Vader was also once an apprentice of Obi-Wan's."

Han tried to piece everything together. "So Vader ain't gonna hurt Luke cause…what, he was best pals with this Skywalker guy?"

Bail considered for only an instant before equivocating. "They were very close," he said. "But...differences of opinion drove them far apart from each other during the Purges. Anakin was loyal to the Jedi and the Republic. Vader sided with the Empire. In the end, Anakin was destroyed with the rest of the Jedi."

Han stared. "And you think Luke is safe because of all that?"

"Obi-Wan and I didn't know what Vader would do should he ever learn that his former friend's son was alive," Bail continued. "It depended on what he chose to remember. If he remembered only their conflict, yes, Luke would have been doomed. From what you've told me, though, of Vader's treatment of Luke, I suspect his reaction has gone the other way."

"How do you know he wasn't just gonna kill him as soon as I was gone?" Han demanded.

"He let you go," Bail said simply.

"What does that prove?" Han snapped.

"If he intended to kill Luke, as he has the rest of the Jedi, he would have ordered you shot or imprisoned for protecting him," Bail argued. "You'd be guilty of consorting with enemies of the Empire. But he let you go—with your ship _and _your hyperdrive."

Han mouthed an _oh,_ remembering the stolen Sienar drive. And the illegal quad cannons.

"That practically amounts to a thank-you gift for taking care of Luke," Bail continued. "He would not have released you as he did if he didn't see you as a friend of a child he wished to protect. He also promised verbally that he would not hurt Luke, and I have never known him to lie."

Change his mind, yes…lose his resolve in a fit of temper such as had happened to Padmé, yes. But the point right now was to reassure Han and keep the boy from getting himself killed going after Luke. The only individual who could possibly have a chance of getting Luke away from Vader now was Master Yoda, and Bail fully intended to alert the Jedi Master to the alarming situation as soon as he could.

But Han had to be discouraged from trying anything. His loyalty was impressive, but if Vader planned on keeping Luke, he'd kill anyone who tried to take the boy without a second thought, whether they were a friend of Luke's or not.

Han was relaxing just a little. Bail's efforts seemed to be working. "I will alert my intelligence agents about Luke's situation; they will tell us if anything happens to threaten your friend. Perhaps you should remain on Alderaan in the meantime?"

"What if you're wrong?" Han whispered. His voice was full of such despair that Bail could not help but empathize.

"If I'm wrong, then Luke is already dead and we can't do anything," Bail finally said. There was no gentler way to put it; but he leaned forward and put a hand on Han's shoulder. "But I'm certain that's not the case."

"He was so scared," Han whispered, staring at the opposite wall. "Kreth, he was screamin' for me an'—an' I couldn't do anything."

"He'll be all right, Han," Bail said firmly. "I'm sure he was very frightened, but Vader means him no harm. He won't be frightened for long."

Han didn't seem to hear him. "Keep him away from the Empire," he mumbled. "That's what Kenobi told me. An' I didn't."

"Han, look at me." Slowly Han's eyes refocused on him. "No one could have done more than you did to protect Luke," Bail said. "It was my men who failed at some point—not you. The important thing is that Luke's life is not in danger. In fact, Vader can probably keep him safer than anyone else can."

Han nodded—fiercely he reached up to rub his eyes, brushing off Bail's hand. "Krethin' dust," he muttered.

Bail smiled just a little. The boy might be an ex-street-rat, but he had a good heart. Han Solo would do very well indeed.

He just prayed that Luke did as well.

_Aboard the _Executor_…_

It was in a state of unusual peace that Darth Vader had retired to his hyperbaric chamber to sleep. His son was restored to him—the gaping wound in his mind was finally healing, and there were no nightmares to plague him anymore. All were banished now; and for the first time he found he could think of his beloved wife without the excruciating agony of guilt. It was still painful—but no longer tortuous.

All in all, he fully expected a peaceful, uninterrupted slumber.

But he didn't get it. Screams woke him some hours later. Vader woke as though he'd been shot, head whirling to locate the source of the awful cries. It took him a moment to realize that he was not physically hearing the shrieks; rather, they were coming to him through the Force.

_Luke!_

Hastily Vader donned his mask and left his hyperbaric chamber, making short work of the distance between it and the small room in which he had put his son to sleep. The door was locked—he hadn't been able to think of a way to avoid it short of chaining Luke's wrist to his belt—but he could now hear soft moans from inside, in addition to the terrified cries in the Force.

He unlocked the door and stepped rapidly inside, switching on the light with a flick of his finger. Luke was huddled on the floor at the foot of the cot, sobbing quietly and clutching his pillow. His eyes flashed up fearfully as he saw Vader, and with a choked whimper pushed himself further into the corner between the cot and the wall. Mindful of the boy's fear, Vader settled down cross-legged in front of him. He didn't speak or make any move to touch his son; gradually Luke's fear settled and the cries in the Force grew silent.

"What is it, my son?" he asked finally.

"Nothing," the boy said with shaky obstinacy from behind the shelter of his pillow.

"I heard you screaming, child. It was certainly _not_ nothing." Luke looked away.

"Just a nightmare, okay?" he said at last, attempting to sound indignant.

_Jedi don't have nightmares._

_I heard you. _

With an inner shudder of his own Vader pushed the memory away. "What was in this nightmare?" he asked.

Luke's hands suddenly twisted into his pillow. "Obi-Wan used to ask that," he whispered softly, staring past Vader's shoulder.

Vader stiffened with lingering resentment and some anger at the mention of Obi-Wan, but he suppressed the emotions immediately. Luke did not yet understand the truth about the man; of course Kenobi would have presented a friendly, caring persona to his son. Suddenly it occurred to him that Luke must be thinking of Corellia.

"And did you tell him?" Vader finally said, controlling his tone carefully.

The boy nodded.

"Then surely you can tell me, young one."

A very unhappy pair of green eyes met his gaze. _I don't want to_. He could hear the boy's thoughts as clearly as if they had been spoken.

He had a long way to go in winning his son's trust.

_Be patient with him_, he reminded himself. "Perhaps you would rather show me?" he tried.

Luke shook his head, tightening his arms around his pillow. Vader sighed, knowing the vocabulator wouldn't pick the sound up. What was he supposed to do with the boy?

_Oh, Padmé, you would have known what to do._ They sat in silence for a while. Vader finally reached out to touch his son's shoulder—but Luke drew back sharply, still fearful.

"Luke, I will not hurt you," Vader said in frustration.

"You did before. Why is everything different now?"

His frustration quickly died to his guilt. "I did not know who you were at that time," he said finally. "If I had known, none of that would have happened."

"So you only treat people well if they're your son?" the boy challenged angrily.

"Then you accept that I am your father," Vader said quickly.

Luke fell silent. "No," he said after a pause, none too convincingly.

Silence reigned again.

"In time, you will learn to accept the truth," Vader finally rumbled, standing. He offered Luke his hand. Not surprisingly, the boy didn't take it. He clambered up on his own and back onto his cot, still hugging his pillow closely. With another sigh, Vader waited as Luke slowly stretched back out.

"We will speak when you awaken," Vader said to his reluctant son. He began to leave—but turned back at the door. "How is your arm?" he asked more gently.

Luke's gaze flicked down. "It hurts some."

A little uncertainly, Vader moved back beside the cot and bent down enough to touch the boy's right arm. With an expert stroke of the Force, he quieted the ache that had begun to grow again in the injured muscle, and took a moment to check that the bandage of bacta wrap was still secure. "It should be fine until you awaken," he told Luke, straightening. "Sleep now."


	15. Crossroads

Author's Note: Told you I wouldn't be too long with my next update! Hope that you enjoy the following.

Luke woke very slowly, his senses coming back online one at a time. It took a while for him to remember where he was and why he had fallen asleep in his jumpsuit and boots. As soon as he did he moaned and buried his head in his pillow, feeling despair and confusion and fright and a million other indescribable emotions pouring down on top of him. It was several minutes before he felt a little like himself again.

_Gotta see if I can get out._ Luke eased off the cot and towards the door to see if it was locked. To his delight, it hissed open as soon as he touched the control—

—Revealing a certain dark lord standing with his hand on the control on the other side. Too startled to be actually afraid, Luke yelped and nearly fell over backwards. Vader's hand flashed out and caught his jumpsuit, saving him the embarrassment.

"I see you are awake at last," he rumbled.

Luke couldn't think of anything to say but "At last?"

"You have been asleep for nearly a full day," the man who was _not_ his father informed him. "Are you hungry?"

He surprised himself by glancing back up eagerly at the mention of food. Come to think of it, he _was_ really hungry.

"I expected so," Vader mused. "Come with me."

Luke hung back initially—but he was _really_ hungry. Cautiously he followed a few steps behind, wondering in spite of himself what Vader would do if Luke were to _accidentally_ step on his cape. He wasn't quite bold enough to try it yet, though…

Vader led him through a couple of cabins into a plain room that had a long table lined with formfitting chairs. "Sit down, young one," he gestured. "I have sent a droid for your meal." Luke sat down hesitantly into one of the chairs—and immediately relaxed, because it felt almost like being back on the _Falcon_ in the way-too-big copilot's chair. Vader took the chair on the end of the table, beside Luke.

_He'd_ sure fit good into Luke's copilot chair. Sadly Luke wondered if he'd ever even get to see the _Falcon_ again.

"You are upset?" Vader asked him.

Luke glanced down at the table top. "I miss my ship," he muttered finally.

"The freighter?"

Luke nodded.

"YT-1300s were good ships," Vader told him. "I am surprised, though, that yours was still functional."

"Well, we had to modify it," Luke said, swiveling his chair around a little nervously. "The cockpit couldn't even read data chips when we got it."

"I am told the ship had a good hyperdrive," Vader said.

Luke glanced up, _very_ nervously, remembering about the stolen Sienar drive. Fortunately, the door hissed open at that point and the droid came in with his breakfast, precluding the need for Luke to come up with an answer. Hastily he dug into the food, not even noticing what it was for several bites.

Vader waited silently while Luke ate, which made him uneasy, but Luke was hardly about to start a conversation. As soon as he was done, Vader spoke up again.

"I asked you before whether you had any questions, son," he rumbled. "I am sure that you do."

Luke sat silently for a while, wondering what he should ask. "What are you going to do with me?" he asked at last.

"For the time being, you will remain here on my command ship," Vader answered. "I am having some rooms prepared for you in my quarters."

"Are you going to lock me up?"

Vader hesitated. "That is not my wish," he said finally. "But firstly, it is necessary that your presence on the ship be kept secret. Secondly, I cannot allow you to run away. You will not be able to wander the ship. "

"We're in hyperspace. I can't run away." Luke could feel the hyperdrive engine sending a deep thrum through the deck.

"We will not always be in hyperspace," Vader rumbled. "But while we are, I will allow you to move as you wish through my quarters. They are fairly spacious. There is room for you to exercise. You can explore when we have finished speaking."

"So you're gonna lock me up whenever we drop out of hyperspace?"

"Child, you are not going to be thrown into a cell," Vader said, with a touch of exasperation. "If you earn my trust, you will be permitted as much freedom as I can give you safely."

"Who's going to hurt me?" Luke demanded.

"The Emperor may see you as a threat to him," Vader said slowly. "If he does, he would not hesitate to kill you. I will do everything I can to protect you from him, my son—but I cannot always be here watching over you. I have duties to perform. If he were to learn of you, he might send an assassin."

Luke was a little sobered by this new information. "So he doesn't know about me?"

"No, my son."

Luke shifted uneasily under the "my son."

"What ship is this?" he asked finally.

"This is my flagship, the _Executor._"

"Where are we going?"

"We are rejoining the rest of Fifth Fleet, my command."

"Where's that?"

"The Akmadia system."

"Where's _that_?"

"You ask a great many questions," Vader observed.

"You told me to," Luke fired back hotly.

He caught a sense of amusement from the Sith lord, who leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. "I did," he agreed. "Akmadia is on the Outer Rim, fifteenth sector."

Luke was quiet for a little while before another question came to mind. "Did you let Han go?"

"Your friend was permitted to disembark in his freighter at our last vector alteration, eighteen hours ago."

"You better not be lying," Luke muttered, mostly to himself—but Vader heard him and soon a big black hand was grasping him around the chin, lifting his head. Luke fought down a flash of terror and memory, and realized he was being held very gently. Not at all like Coruscant.

"Little one, you have my word that I will never lie to you," Vader told him firmly.

"What if that's a lie?"

Vader's hand tightened a little in exasperation. "Are you determined to believe that everything I tell you is a lie?"

Luke didn't answer. He didn't know what he ought to believe.

Vader let go of him at last. "You have your mother's stubbornness, my son," the dark lord said rather ruefully.

His mother? Luke didn't know anything about his mother.

"Would you like to hear about her?" Vader asked him.

Luke bolted up out of his chair. "Stop reading my mind!"

"I am _not_ reading your mind, my son."

"Don't _call_ me that!"

Vader was getting angry, Luke could sense it. "You are my son," the man said evenly. "I will call you as I see fit."

"My father was a Jedi—"

"Enough, son."

"—not a _murderer_—"

"Enough!"

"—and you killed him!"

"_Enough!_" Vader thundered, standing to his full height—and Luke's terror kicked back in full force. He scrambled away for the door at the other end of the room, but halfway there an invisible giant's hand snared him, and Luke was left immobilized by thin air to wait for Vader to reach him. The force freezing him vanished as Vader pulled him against his breastplate, allowing him to tremble all over. Force, Force, he'd made him angry—_what were you thinking, Luke?_

…

Vader had indeed been angry with the obstinate child, especially considering how difficult it was for him to offer to speak of the boy's mother—but his anger died quickly as Luke began to shake. Again he had terrified his son, despite all his resolutions to the contrary after the incident of the nightmare. He tucked his son underneath his right arm in a less intimidating hold and patted the boy with his free hand. Within the safety of his mask, he gave a despairing sigh. How long would it take his son to adjust? Months?

Slowly, Luke's trembling began to ease as he sent waves of reassurance to his son. That was somewhat encouraging—Luke must accept the truth on some level if he would allow his father to quiet him.

But though the physical manifestation of Luke's fear was leaving, the fear was not. It might be best to leave his son alone for a time before attempting further interaction. He had been overhasty in trying to urge conversation. It seemed that was too stressful for the boy at present.

What was necessary, what was critical, was for Luke to accept the truth of his parentage. Vader would get nowhere until Luke acknowledged him as his father—because until that point, he would be the enemy, as per the age-old rivalry of the Jedi and the Sith. Yet how could he convince the child?

Perhaps an attempt at meditation would be advisable. Whether he excelled at the detested exercise or no, this was a serious matter, very serious. It deserved nothing less than his best efforts to find a resolution. Besides, that would give Luke time to calm down.

When the boy was physically calm enough, Vader guided him back out of the conference room to the small cabin where he had left the little one to sleep before. "You need time to calm yourself," he announced, depositing his son on the cot. "I will come back for you in a few hours. Does your arm pain you?"

Luke nodded silently, not looking up. Vader repeated his pain-nullifying procedure of the previous night and left the boy with a pat on the shoulder that he hoped came across as friendly, locking the door behind him. Hopefully he would enjoy more success in meditation than was typical of him. Indeed he hoped so, for Luke's sake.

…

Luke cast a blank, depressed gaze over the small room he had been left in once more. Locked up again. It seemed like everybody wanted to pen him up these days except for Han. And Han was gone.

_Obi-Wan never penned me up_. Miserably Luke thought back to those two or so years with the Jedi Master. Come to think of it, maybe this wasn't too much different from when he'd woken up and found himself on the ship with Obi-Wan, far away from everything familiar. Except Obi-Wan had never, ever done anything to terrify the living daylights out of him—Obi-Wan had never grabbed him or held him still with the Force.

_I miss you_, he thought achingly. _And Aunt Beru. And even Uncle Owen. And Han. _

Why did all of this have to happen to him?

"I know it's not fair, Luke," an ethereal voice said aloud.

Luke started clear off the cot and stared wildly around the room. That—that sounded like—

"Obi-Wan?" he breathed as a ghostly blue form appeared opposite the cot.

Obi-Wan smiled and nodded. "Yes, Luke, it's me."

"But—but—you're _dead_—aren't you?"

"I believe we went over this on Coruscant," Obi-Wan said mildly. "There is no death—there is the Force."

"But—but—stang, I didn't think you meant that _literally_!"

"Language," Obi-Wan warned sternly.

Luke glanced down in reflexive shame. "Sorry."

"That's what I get for sending you off with Han," Obi-Wan sighed, shaking his head as he moved a little closer. "In any case, Luke, I didn't come to discuss metaphysics with you."

"Meta-what?"

Obi-Wan waved a hand dismissively. "Never mind. You have more important questions, I think."

That sounded a bit too much like what Vader had said not long ago. "Obi-Wan—can't you get me out of here?" he pleaded. "Please?"

Obi-Wan gave a ghostly sigh and sat down on the cot next to Luke. "Luke, I know you've been very afraid," he said sympathetically. "And I know this will not be easy for you right now. But we need to discuss your father."

Luke tightened up. "It's not true," he said softly. "He's lying…isn't he?"

Obi-Wan looked down. "No, Luke, he isn't. He is your father."

Something in him nearly shattered. "But—why didn't you tell me that?" he whispered, torn apart with the betrayal. "You—you knew and you didn't tell me."

Obi-Wan's voice was very heavy when he spoke. "It was a hard decision to make, Luke," he said slowly. "I wondered many times whether or not it was time to tell you the truth about your father. It is a very painful and difficult tale, one I thought you would understand better when you were older. But circumstances prevented me from protecting you that long."

"You let me think he _killed_ my father," Luke whispered tremulously.

"From a certain point of view, Luke, that's true," Obi-Wan told him. "When your father turned to the dark side, he ceased to be Anakin Skywalker and became Darth Vader. When that happened, the good man who was your father was destroyed."

Luke sat staring at the floor in stunned silence. "What am I supposed to do?" he asked finally.

Obi-Wan took quite a while to think—and when his response came, it was quite lengthy. "Because of what your father had done to the Jedi, I hid you from him when you were born," he began. "I feared that he might have fallen so far into the dark side that he would kill you as well. That was one of the reasons why I took you from your uncle and aunt three years ago. I was afraid your dreams might cause a disturbance in the Force and attract his attention.

" But I have been watching both of you since Corellia. On Coruscant, when you dropped your shields, your father recognized your Force presence." Obi-Wan paused. "I have not sensed such joy from him since…since before he turned to the dark side. He loves you, Luke. He has been badly tainted by darkness, but he has enough light in him to care for you." Obi-Wan turned earnestly to Luke. "Young one, you are the last hope in this galaxy that your father has. It may yet be possible to draw him back to the light side—but you are the only one who can do it. He needs you, Luke."

"I—I can't!" Luke cried. "I don't know how, I don't know what to do!"

"Just be yourself, Luke—and hold to the light. He will see."

…

About three hours later, a frustrated Darth Vader finally gave up on his attempt at meditation. It simply wasn't working, no matter how hard he tried, no matter how he spurred himself on with thoughts of Luke. There were some things, it seemed, that even the Chosen One couldn't do, not if his life depended on it.

Resigning himself, he left his hyperbaric chamber, heading through his quarters towards his son's room. He did not relish the thought of another stressful confrontation with his distraught, uncooperative son—doubtless it would provide more hindrances to their relationship than helps. But leaving Luke locked in a small room for hours on end would not improve the situation either, so he doggedly resolved to give it another try.

Luke was at the head of his bed, arms wrapped around his legs and his chin resting pensively on his knees. He turned quickly as Vader entered. The time apart seemed to have been good for him. There was uncertainty in his demeanor, but only a little fear. He surprised his father by softly saying, "Hello."

Vader stopped inside the doorway, wondering at the boy's apparent change of attitude. "Hello, son," he finally rumbled back. "Are you calmer?"

Luke nodded slowly. A little hesitant, worried that he would alarm the boy once again, Vader approached his son and settled a hand on his shoulder. "Then perhaps you would like to explore the rooms," he suggested.

He was pleased to see Luke's eyes light up just a little. Clearly the boy was enticed by the chance to get out of his small, confining bedroom.

Vader stepped aside out of the door. "You may go and look, then," he said. Luke seemed to be in a much more reasonable mood than he had exhibited heretofore. So long as Vader stayed in the front chamber and ensured his son would not get out through the only entrance into his quarters, it should be safe enough to let the boy explore about. "There is a hyperbaric chamber in one of my personal rooms," he added as Luke got up. "That and my office are the only places I ask you not to disturb."

Luke nodded and edged past him, still a little wary, but clearly curious. In another moment the boy had wandered out of sight through another room.

Relieved by the boy's new subdued behavior, Vader retreated to the front chamber with his datapad and went about the business of trying to find some effective hair-dye remover aboard the ship. He had Doctor Siler hunting around the star destroyer while he himself examined the ship's inventories, but to date he'd not discovered anything that met the requirements. Perhaps he could concoct something from the chemical stores in the med bay…

The door hissed open almost without warning, and Siler came in with a look of reserved triumph on his face and a container of some sort in his hand. "I believe this should serve nicely, my lord," he announced, handing the container to Vader.

Vader only needed one look at the bottle to know it was trouble. It was pink. Very, very bright pink.

"One of our female crewmembers had it in her private stores," Siler explained.

**_Deluxe Fem Spa Hair Treatment System: Super Strength Dye Remover_**

_With Delicate Infusions of Magnolia and Arralute._

This would not go over well.


	16. Of Governors and Lightsabers

Author's Note: Here's your next update…this one's a little longer than the last two have been, so hopefully you'll all be very happy and send me lots of feedback! Please remember that I appreciate all sorts of reviews, whether positive or negative, so long as you review courteously.

_On Alderaan…_

Leia was getting uncomfortable already. Not a good sign, considering that she was going to have to live with this costume for several more hours. But like it or not, she had to grow up one of these days, and her parents had finally decided thirteen was old enough for her attendance at formal occasions to be expected. That was the big downside to being a princess on an influential world at one of the biggest intersections of the galaxy's hyperlanes—there were plenty of important guests coming through, all the time, and therefore plenty of those formal occasions.

Today was an especially odious occasion. She'd already been to some of these ceremonial greetings and state dinners, enough to not be very nervous about them anymore and to know what was expected of her. But today the guest of honor—more like dishonor, in Leia's considered opinion—was an Imperial Moff. Not just any Moff, either, but the universally disliked Moff Tarkin.

Grand Moff, actually, she reminded herself—the promotion was quite a recent one, and Aldera had only barely received word of it in time to make appropriate alterations for the reception of the guest. Whether she hated the nasty old man or not, she'd better not embarrass her father by forgetting his proper title.

Leia hated having to get stiffly dressed up for _any_ reason, but she especially hated doing it when she didn't even like the person all the bother was about. But she didn't have a choice, so here she was decked out in a stifling formal white gown, with her hair braided up as elaborately as her aunts could contrive, wearing her least favorite pair of shoes in the whole galaxy, counting down the hours and minutes until she could ditch the whole ensemble. _Behave yourself_, she chanted over and over. _Watch your manners and smile and be very polite and he'll probably be polite back. Politicians are always polite. _

She was waiting with her mother in the royal reception chamber of the palace; soon her father would arrive with the Grand Moff, they'd all introduce and chit-chat politely and then go on to the formal dinner with all the appropriate officials and trappings. When that was over, then she could make her escape—she knew the routine by now.

A chime went off. They were coming. Her mother smiled a little wryly at her and stood up, smoothing out her dress. "Are you ready, Leia?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," she replied dutifully, getting up. Her mother checked her appearance cursorily and nodded.

The door opened across the room, and her father entered just ahead of a tall, wiry, grim-faced man in a bleakly-colored Imperial uniform. He had wire-gray hair, insofar as he _had_ hair, and high cheekbones with coldly hollow cheeks below. And he had the hardest eyes of any man Leia had ever seen.

"Governor, my wife," her father was saying, taking Breha by the hand.

"Lady Organa," Tarkin nodded sparsely.

"Welcome to Alderaan, Governor," her mother answered smoothly, inclining her head.

Her father's gaze turned to her. "And this is my daughter," he continued, gesturing to Leia to come forward.

She came with her head high, and curtsied just a little, as her mother had said she should.

The hard eyes swiveled onto her. "So this is the little princess," Tarkin said, with an air of some calculation. "I hear she is a promising child."

Leia felt a stab of annoyance. He didn't have to talk as though she was some kind of household pet!

"Thank you," she said a bit haughtily before her father or mother could speak up.

Tarkin's eyes narrowed. "And it seems rather spirited, as well."

"Well," Bail said quickly, "children often are." He gave Leia a warning glance, and she knew she'd better not say anything more to express her irritation.

But she was an inventive sort of person. There were _plenty_ of other ways to get back at this horrid fellow for his disdainful treatment of her. If she couldn't get her revenge with words….well…she'd just get another way. And she had a feeling it would be a whole lot more fun.

For her, that was.

_A few hours or so later…_

Han had been at the Royal Palace for about a day. Of course, that wasn't long enough for the senator's agents to have heard anything about Luke, but knowing that didn't ease Han's fear that the news would be bad when it came. Kreth, he'd never forgive himself if—if—

He couldn't finish the thought.

He was slumped in the shadow of a balustrade column right now, on the hallway outside his room in the private section of the palace. He'd thought about going down to the garden instead, but there was some kind of fancy-pants party or other going on at the palace, which was exactly the sort of thing Han detested. So he was staying where it was nice and quiet.

Suddenly he perked up a little as the silence was broken by a soft, light step towards the end of the hall. Somebody was coming. And they were coming as quiet as they could—they didn't want any attention, that was for sure. Now who'd be sneaking around the royal palace without being up to no good? Han eased a little farther back into his shadow. There weren't any lights on here—he should be able to see whoever it was when they came without being noticed as long as he was quiet, and maybe get the drop on them. He didn't much like the idea of anything happening to the Organas. They were decent enough people, even if that princess had a case of general stuck-up-ness.

The light footstep came closer, and Han got ready to jump out with his blaster to stop the guy, whoever it was—_come on, just a little closer…_

The step stopped. After a pause Han leaned cautiously out, just enough to peer past the pillar…

Suddenly he felt a sudden distinctive pressure in the small of his back, and flung his hands up quickly. "Don't shoot!" he yelped.

Someone snickered softly behind him. "You're Han Solo, aren't you?" said a familiar female voice.

Han whirled around to face none other than Princess Leia…armed with nothing but a couple of pointed fingers. "What're you sneakin' around for, Your Royalness?" he demanded angrily.

Her brown eyes flashed; she crossed her arms irritably. "None of your business," she said.

"Look, you go around scarin' people, you're gonna have to answer questions," Han argued back. "Or else I'll tell your dad you're sneakin' around when you oughta be in bed."

"You would not!"

"Wanna bet, Your Princessness?"

Leia glared at him. "Fine," she said. "I'm pranking somebody."

Han grinned. "You, little miss perfect, playing pranks?" Maybe she wasn't all bad news after all.

"You believe it," she said defensively.

"On who?"

She scowled. "The guest. He has no manners."

"Anybody I'd know about?"

"Grand Moff Tarkin."

Han perked up. "He's an Imperial, ain't he?"

"Yeesss…" she said slowly.

"Whatever you're planning, I want in on it," Han said.

Leia cocked her head. "What'd he do to you?"

"It's more like a down payment for the Empire in general," Han said grimly. _This one's for you, kid._

"You promise never to tell?" she demanded.

"Whatever you say, sweetheart." He stuck out his hand. "Shake on it, huh? Partners in crime?"

She looked at his hand a bit disdainfully before finally shaking it, as if she were afraid he was contagious. "Come on, then. I'll show you the way."

…

Bail was rather relieved that everything had gone as smoothly as it had. Leia had fortunately managed to regain control of her temper after that first awkward scene, and dinner had gone quite well all things considered. And now Leia was gone to bed—the adults had continued the ceremonial festivities in the formal garden. The evening should be smooth sailing from here on out. There might be a few rough spots for him to navigate through…but he was used to handling that sort of thing.

Just now Tarkin was on the other side of the fountain, conversing with one of his retinue just beneath the balcony. Bail could only feel relief that the grand moff had momentarily switched his attention to someone other than himself.

His relief was short-lived, though. Just as Bail turned back around to continue his conversation with the Minister of Finance, a splash and a shout rose from behind him, quickly followed by gasps from the guests. Bail spun around—to find both the grand moff and his officer glaring, drenched, and dripping.

And not with water, either. Whatever liquid that had been, it was bright purple—and Bail had a sinking suspicion that it was not going to be coming out of either uniforms or skin anytime soon.

It seemed the sailing would not be so smooth after all.

Force, but his daughter was going to be sorry.

…

Both Leia and Han made a quick dash off the balcony, going down the vine on the wall opposite the garden until they landed on the roof of the library and could make their way to the maintenance entrance they had used.

"Not a bad plan for a princess," Han told her as they slipped back into the private section of the palace.

She eyed him sideways, and decided she might as well take it as a compliment. "Yeah, but the dye concentrate was a good idea," she said. "I was just going to use water."

Han shrugged. "Call it brilliance, sweetheart," he said. "This your door?"

"As close as you're getting to it," she shot back.

"Oh, a touchy one," Han snorted. "Well, sleep it up, Your Worship." He meandered away towards the guest rooms. Leia stuck her tongue out at him behind his back and slipped back to her bedroom, as silently as she'd gone out. _Last time I hang around with that jerk_, she vowed before crawling into her bed and switching out the light. _I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man in the galaxy, Han Solo._

_Back on the _Executor_…_

"No!"

"Son, we are through arguing about this."

"I am _not_ rubbing a bunch of girl goo in my hair!"

Vader sighed inside the mask. Luke's reaction was, unfortunately, understandable for a thirteen-year-old boy confronted with female hygiene products, especially considering that he had probably spent the last three years strictly in the company of males. But it wasn't as though there was another option. "It is only a dye remover, Luke."

"It is _not_!" Luke pointed to the curlicue-plastered label on the offensive container. "I'll smell like a bunch of _flowers_!"

"That is an exaggeration. Now take it."

Luke stuck his hands adamantly behind his back and retreated several steps. "No way am I touching that thing."

Vader thought about it for one second further. "Very well. You don't have to."

Luke's eyes brightened triumphantly.

"_I_'ll do it," Vader continued.

Horror quickly replaced the triumph. "You wouldn't."

Vader's only answer was to move towards the boy. Luke tried a dash around his advancing father for the corridor, but the maneuver was no more effective than it had been to date. Vader snagged him by the collar and hauled Luke up over his shoulder, starting towards a refresher.

"Believe me, son, if I have to strip you and scrub you down in the shower myself, I'll do it."

"This is practically torture!" Luke howled at him.

"Would you prefer to do it yourself?"

"I _am not_ gonna walk around smelling like a girl!"

Vader shrugged. "Have it your way." He lugged his writhing son into the 'fresher and began peeling off the boy's jumpsuit.

"All right, all right!" Luke finally yelped when he realized his father meant business. "Stop it, I'll do it myself!"

"Good boy. Take out those lenses too," Vader added before leaving the 'fresher. He felt Luke scowling at his departing back.

Half an hour later, Luke emerged once more, wearing the most sullen expression in his repertoire and rubbing his wet hair vigorously with a towel, as if hoping he could somehow sponge the smell out of it. "I _stink_," he complained irritably upon seeing his father waiting outside.

"You will not be aware of it for long," Vader told him. "And there is no one here to notice. Now come here."

Luke complied hesitantly, his obedience still coming only through great reluctance. Vader lifted his son's chin. Gone was the green gaze; two brilliant blue eyes now stared back at him, as though he were looking into a mirror. There was one feature still the same between the two of them. He held the eye contact for some seconds before finally letting go and turning his attention to the boy's tousled, damp hair. It was still too wet for him to tell if there had been a change of color. He took charge of the towel and began briskly drying off the boy's head.

It had been quite a long time since he'd had occasion to towel off any hair. Thirteen years, to be exact. His touch grew gentler with memory.

After a time he finally lifted the towel up—and, almost reverently, smoothed the damp but now recognizably blond locks underneath. His lips came up in a secret smile, not minding the pain of the straining scar tissue.

"You are indeed your father's son, my young one," he murmured. _Now_ the child before him resembled the little ten-year-old of those first images—though the three intervening years had done much to refine the child's features into something more closely approximating an adult.

Luke shifted a little uneasily. But there was none of the loud objection that previous references to their relationship had elicited. It was strange that his attitude could have changed so quickly in so short a time…but Vader was hardly going to complain about the mysterious improvement. He turned his attention instead to the rest of the boy. Luke had left the jumpsuit off, and was only in his undershirt and shorts and socks. He looked to be a slight but tough child.

His father's instinct quickly drew his gaze to the boy's bandaged arm, though. He ought to have Siler come and check the injury's progress. For now, Vader settled his concerns with making sure the bandage had not come loose or unsealed in the shower. It had not. He straightened back up, wondering what he ought to do with his son now. The _Executor_ was still in hyperspace, and would be for another four hours; his attention was not required to manage the ship until then.

Discussion didn't seem like a good option yet—Vader did not wish to jeopardize the boy's current, mostly cooperative attitude by bringing up difficult topics. Perhaps he should take the boy to his dueling room and let the child demonstrate what he knew thus far about the Force.

Yes—that sounded like a fairly safe route to take.

"Come, Luke," he rumbled. His son followed a short distance behind him—just far enough to be out of reach. Still fearful, then.

Vader unlocked the dueling salle and showed the boy inside. He was pleased to sense his son's abrupt rush of enthusiasm. So—the boy recognized the purpose of the room. Vader sat down in the center of the floor and gestured Luke to copy him. Luke seemed a little more at ease as he settled down cross-legged opposite his father. This felt familiar to the child, it seemed.

"How long did Obi-Wan teach you?" he asked.

The answer surprised the dark lord. "Two years."

Only two years? When the boy had been within Obi-Wan's reach for twelve? Why had the Jedi not begun training Luke much sooner, as per the traditions of the Jedi Order? "Starting when you were ten?"

Luke nodded.

That was even later a beginning than _he'd_ had, later by a year. Why had Obi-Wan waited so long? Vader made a note to ask his son more about what had happened—but for now, he felt that conversation was best delayed until a more fitting time. They would focus on assessing Luke's skills for now.

"Then you cannot have learned much," Vader mused aloud. "I presume you know basic telekinesis."

"Tele-what?"

Vader decided a demonstration might serve his purposes better. He took his lightsaber from his belt and set it on the floor between them. "Can you lift this?"

"Oh, _that_," his son said sagely. Quickly the lightsaber sprang up into the air and flew graceful circles around their heads, bouncing up and down, and even sailing through a series of elaborate victory rolls before returning—not to the floor, but precisely back to its hook on Vader's belt.

Vader was _very_ pleased with the high level of control his son was already exhibiting, despite only having about three years of experience behind him. "That was very good," he said.

Luke just shrugged wistfully. "I used to practice with my starfighter models," he said.

"Obviously, you can maintain good shields," Vader continued. Luke glanced down; Vader sensed a strange stab of unhappiness. "Did you learn anything about mind-reading?"

Luke nodded promptly.

"What am I thinking?" He held a single, neutral thought carefully in mind for his son to find.

"'Do you like to fly'," Luke said after only a couple seconds.

"Very—"

"And you're wondering if I was going to take long," Luke added.

Vader paused, impressed with the boy's dexterity at picking past the obvious to the more difficult background thoughts. "Excellent," he said thoughtfully. "Have you learned anything else?"

It was not likely that Luke had, especially considering how much he had advanced in those few areas. But to his surprise Luke nodded. "About stopping dreams," he said softly. "But that's really hard still."

"Do you have dreams often?"

Luke nodded. "I can't stop the bad ones as well," he said.

That explained some of the boy's distress earlier, following his nightmare. It seemed his son took after him in a variety of ways—but he had hoped his son would be spared this curse. "I will continue to help you," he told the boy. "But not all dreams can be stopped, my son. Some are too strong."

Luke nodded.

"Now—have you had any practice with the lightsaber?"

For the first time, Luke's eyes lit up brightly. He nodded, trying to contain his eagerness. "Yes."

Vader suspected the boy must have, from their first discussion in the museum and their third encounter on the _Falcon_. "I thought so," he said aloud. He took his lightsaber from his belt again and handed it to his son, much as he had that day on Coruscant. The similarity was not lost on Luke—the boy's eagerness faded somewhat, and he hesitated before taking the lightsaber. His tension quickly faded, though, as Vader began asking him questions.

"Where is the activation switch?"

Luke turned the hilt over and found the control almost immediately.

"The activation plate?"

The boy proved that he knew what he was doing with a lightsaber by only touching the edge of the plate, and not foolishly placing his hand over the whole top, which had gotten more than one hand accidentally skewered throughout history. Vader immediately approved him for it, and actually got a bit of a smile in return.

"The intensity gauge?"

Luke pointed to the base of the hilt.

"Good. Do you remember what I said the grip was made of?"

"Prexlyne," Luke said promptly. "So it can't slip."

_Smart boy._ "Do you remember which two forms this blade is especially suited for?"

"Ataro…and…and…it's D-something, isn't it?"

"Djem-So. Very good." Vader watched while Luke fitted his hand experimentally around the grip, as close to a proper hold as his small fingers could get.

"Can I turn it on?" he asked abruptly.

Vader considered. "Yes, but do not use your right arm. And turn the intensity down to the middle."

Luke fiddled with the control for a second before switching the hilt dexterously into his left hand and igniting the humming blade out to the side. He slashed a few times at the air—Vader realized he was testing the balance of the weapon. The boy quickly frowned and glanced back at his father's belt. "Can I see the other one?" he asked shyly.

The other…? Suddenly Vader remembered the lightsaber he had taken from his son on the freighter. Sure enough, the weapon was still hanging at his belt where he'd put it. He reached down to give it to the boy—and glanced down sharply as soon as his fingers closed around the grip. Startled, he practically tore the blade from his belt, holding it before him with both hands.

"Did Obi-Wan give you this?" he asked shakily after a long pause.

Luke shook his head. "Not really. I found it in his case—after—well, after."

Distantly Vader noticed the waver in his son's voice, dimly he sensed the resurgence of old pain.

"Can I see it?" Luke repeated after another pause. Slowly Vader handed the boy the lightsaber, watching as his son switched off the red one and turned on the blue one, repeating his series of slashes. Finally Luke turned it off and fixed a suspicious gaze on his father. "They feel almost exactly the same," he said.

"They should," Vader answered. He was certainly a clever little one. "The blue blade was once mine also, before you were born." _Before Mustafar._ "I lost it in a duel with Obi-Wan." _Along with much else. _

Luke's eyes widened curiously. "Is that when you got hurt?" he asked softly.

Vader exhaled even more heavily than usual. "Yes."

Silence fell.

"Do you want it back?" Luke finally asked, holding the hilt back out to him.

Recollections spun wildly in the dark lord's mind as he took the saber—the mayhem of the Clone Wars, the battle aboard Grievous' flagship, the fateful confrontation in Palpatine's office…the Jedi Temple…Mustafar. So much history, though it had only hung at his belt for three years. So much memory…

His decision was so sudden it startled him. "I will take it for the moment," Vader said. "When you are ready for practice, it will be yours."

It was stingingly difficult—to give up something that symbolized so much all that had happened to him, all his reasons for hating Obi-Wan and the Jedi—but the look on his son's face was well worth it, he decided. "You mean it?" Luke breathed excitedly.

"Yes, son." Vader could not repress a slight upwelling of pleasure at his son's obvious delight. Surely Luke would not be so excited about the blade if he didn't accept his father at some level. "We will begin practicing when your arm is healed." Speaking of that arm, he needed to have Siler check it and likely change the bandaging. The bacta needed to be refreshed in order to be most effective.

"Come," he said. "It is time the medic saw to your arm again."

Luke made a distasteful face—he definitely shared his father's pre-Mustafar disdain for medical treatment—but he stood and followed.


	17. Reunions

Author's Note: Thank you for the reviews last chapter! It seems that you all enjoyed my attempts at humor…Well, I'm not usually much of a comedic genius, but I'll try to work in some more of those light moments as our story progresses. However, this chapter will be a bit heavier. To those of you wondering about Sara and Sandra…no, I haven't forgotten about them! We just haven't yet reached the right point for returning to them. But I promise you they'll be back. Now that you've all put your blasters away, I present the next segment…

_On a very, _very_ remote planet on the Outer Rim…_

The sudden, cheerful chime of the communication unit quite nearly sent the owner through the low ceiling of his home. It was only through the good will of the Force that his pot of soup did not also go airborne. The owner's surprise was understandable—not for thirteen years had he received any communications from anyone. Nor, indeed, had he even been around any items capable of so synthetic a sound as an electrical chime. It took the poor occupant a few seconds to remember first what was making the noise, and another few to remember where he'd put the communication unit all those years ago. Finally he hobbled over and discovered it sitting inconspicuously on top of its power generator behind the chair.

When the screen switched on, it took him another moment to recognize the somewhat changed face in the projector as Bail Organa.

"Senator Organa," the owner of the com unit greeted. "Unexpected, this is."

"Master Yoda," the senator nodded, his expression noticeably tight. "I'm afraid I have some bad news."

The wizened old Jedi Master settled grimly back into his chair. "News of your daughter, is this?"

"No, Master, no—Leia's fine, thank the Force. But I'm afraid I can't say the same for Luke."

Yoda braced himself, expecting the worst. His expectations were not disappointed.

"Luke has been captured by Vader," Bail continued.

"Discover the boy on Tatooine, did he?"

"No, Master. It's rather a long story, I'm afraid, but Master Kenobi removed Luke from Tatooine about three years ago. Nine months or so ago, Vader's agents tracked Master Kenobi to Corellia."

"Sensed Obi-Wan's death, I did," Yoda nodded sorrowfully.

"Luke managed to escape Corellia," Bail continued, "but information concerning him somehow came into Vader's possession. He encountered the boy briefly on Coruscant, but a Rebel pilot somehow contrived to free Luke and brought him back to our headquarters. I retrieved him and brought him to one of our safe houses on Alderaan, but it seems Vader was able to track him. The boy was kidnapped a few days ago, along with a companion who has been with him since Corellia. I think it is significant to note that Vader released this companion as soon as he had Luke."

"Released him, did he," Yoda mused thoughtfully. "In the employ of Vader, was this companion?"

"I sincerely doubt that." Bail paused. "This companion reported that Vader promised him no harm would come to Luke."

Yoda furrowed his green brow and rubbed his gimer stick thoughtfully. "Think the boy is in danger, you do," he decided perceptively.

"I very much fear that, Master," the senator said with a look of deep concern. "Even if Vader does not _intend_ to harm the boy…"

Yoda nodded at the unspoken reference to Padmé's fate.

"I think, Master, that the child must be retrieved," Bail said firmly. "It is not merely physical danger that the boy is in. You do realize that."

"Realize it, yes, yes," Yoda agreed. "But judge too hastily, you must not, senator. Assessed, the danger must be."

"You propose a reconnaissance of the situation?"

"Watch, we must," Yoda continued. "If move too quickly we do, harmed the boy may be. Not helped."

Bail breathed in deeply. "Conceded. You will come to survey the situation?"

"No, no. Too dangerous, that would be. Alert, Vader is, dangerous. Intelligence agents near Vader, have you?"

"Not _that_ near," Bail snorted. "He kills them if they get close enough to see anything of value."

Yoda frowned. "Perhaps send a droid, you could."

Bail took on a considering expression. "That might be possible. I'll see what I can do."

Yoda sat meditating for a long, long time after the connection was ended.

_Some time later…_

For the first few days, the sense of a child's bright presence had lent an unaccustomed feeling of lightness to Vader's Spartan quarters. But this marked the end of the _Executor_'s eleventh day in realspace. For eleven days, Vader's every waking hour—and a good many that he should have spent in sleeping—had been consumed with such unpleasant business as explaining Ozzel's death and the _Executor_'s unannounced detour to the Emperor, finding a new admiral for Fifth Fleet, and handling the Rebellion…not to mention all the other sundry duties that came with commanding the largest military force the galaxy had ever seen. He was away from his quarters as much as twenty hours of every day. And when he was gone, he did not yet dare to let Luke out of the few rooms that had been set aside for the child.

As a result, Luke's spirits had dropped to their lowest point since he'd come kicking and screaming aboard the star destroyer. Instead of bright, the boy's presence was heavy and morose; in fact, the boy was bordering on depression from being penned up for so much of his time. It was, he acknowledged, quite a shocking adjustment for the boy to make, considering how freely Luke had been wandering for the past several months. And just to exasperate the child further, his still-healing arm prevented him from most activities that could alleviate his restlessness.

Vader did not like the situation at all. It was frustrating to both of them that he could not be there more often—and besides that, it was unhealthy for the boy. He had been racking his brains for a remedy every spare second, but until today nothing had occurred to him…

But now he entered his rooms for the first time in eighteen hours with a sense of definite triumph. He'd come up with something, for one. And for another, Luke had recognized his approach through the Force, and the little one's anticipation was singing to him eagerly through its ebbs and flows. He smiled slightly beneath the mask. At least this situation had made Luke eager for his father's company, which was a marked improvement over his early dread.

Quickly the dark lord moved through his quarters to the room where he had left his son. Inside, the lights were out, but the helmet's photoreceptors allowed him to discern that his son was sitting up in bed, eyes on him alertly.

"Hello, son," he greeted, not moving any farther in than the doorway. Luke was much easier around his father now than he had been, true, but he was a far cry from bouncing around Vader's boots like his little sisters would have done. The boy was still very nervous when his father came near; although he had learned that Vader's presence meant he could get out of his few rooms, there was always a soft undercurrent of fear to be found in his young mind.

With time and familiarity, that fear would go, Vader was sure. In the meantime, he tried to soothe it by maintaining space that belonged strictly to his son. Luke was not to disturb his hyperbaric chamber or office, and in return he did not disturb his son's rooms. The tactic seemed to be working fairly well; Luke's nerves were quieted with the knowledge that he had a zone of safety to retreat to if needed.

"Hello," Luke said softly.

"Come, little one," he said, beckoning. "I have something for you."

Luke perked up immediately and extricated himself from his tangle of blankets. It was a task, especially considering that his sleepwear had been commandeered from the ship's clothing stores and even the smallest sizes were too big for him by half; the oversized shirt and trousers tended to get caught up in the sheets. But eventually the boy got himself detangled and padded over barefoot.

"What?" he asked curiously.

"I have something for you to do when I am gone," Vader said, gesturing for the boy to follow him.

Luke trotted a little faster to keep up with his father's long strides. "What sort of something?" he said dubiously. Then they turned a corner into the front chamber, and Vader turned back around in time to see Luke's expression suddenly light up all over.

"I can have them?"

"Yes, son. They were intercepted carrying Rebel information and will require some repair work."

Although he did not erupt into childlike squeals of delight—another phase of his son's life that he had missed, Vader reflected a bit bitterly—their mental bond was bright with excitement as Luke edged his way up to his father's solution to the problem.

"I can provide you with components and tools," a pleased Vader continued, watching as the boy examined his present. "They should occupy you for some time."

"I don't see their serial numbers," Luke frowned as he circled around, examining.

"They are C-3PO and R2-D2," Vader informed him. The numbers were not printed on the two droids, not anymore—but he would have known them anywhere. It hadn't taken more than a couple of seconds for him to recognize the droids that had been intercepted by his agents.

It was rather foolish of the Rebels to send their intelligence reports with a pair of droids. Still, had there not been a fortunate leak of information to his agents, the droids would likely have gotten through to their destination without difficulty. Unfortunately, they hadn't been able to discover what that destination was—the droids had been programmed to erase the information from their systems in the event of capture. The intelligence report had been retrieved, but it was all stolen Imperial information and did not offer any further clues towards rooting out the Rebellion. He had had the command systems of the two droids cleared, but didn't have the heart to destroy either. Like the lightsaber, they held many memories for him—Artoo particularly, as he had been a wedding gift from…Padmé.

So, like the lightsaber, he had decided to give them to his son. Luke could rebuild the minimal component damage to the pair and reprogram their command systems. The work would keep him occupied for a time, and after that they would provide at least a form of companionship for his lonely boy. It must have been the will of the Force that these droids had once again appeared.

_After a while…_

"Artoo! Artoo! Are you all right?"

all systems operational. stop blowing your circuits.

"Well," huffed the fussy gold droid, "you needn't be cheeky."

"Hey, you work!" Luke exclaimed delightedly, settling back on his heels.

"Oh, my goodness," Threepio said, swiveling his photoreceptors onto the boy. "I beg your pardon, sir, I did not notice you. I'm afraid my situational response circuits have been under some stress recently."

"Yeah, mine too," Luke muttered, thinking back over the last fourteen days.

"Oh, I'm so sorry to hear that, sir."

"You can just call me Luke," Luke said.

"Certainly, Sir Luke."

Luke shot a horrified gaze up. "Uh-uh, _just_ Luke," he said emphatically.

"Oh, but that would process incorrectly," Threepio argued. "I am a protocol droid, after all."

Luke resigned himself. "I thought so. You're kind of an unusual model, though."

"I believe I may have been somewhat modified, sir, but I can't say for sure. My memory banks record one wipe."

poor baby.

"I don't know why I was ever concerned about you in the first place," Threepio sniffed at the astromech droid nearby.

"What'd he say?" Luke said curiously.

"He's being quite insufferable, as _usual_," the protocol droid said, giving a good impression of a glower despite his total lack of mobile facial features. "May I ask where we are, sir?"

"On the _Executor_," Luke answered him, tinkering a little more with Threepio's elbow joint.

"That sounds rather ominous," the droid mused. "Is it a Rebel ship?"

Luke snorted. "No, it's the opposite. It's an Imperial ship."

"Imperial?" Threepio cried in distress. "Oh, my! Artoo, we'll be melted for scrap metal! Sent to the spice mines of Kessel!"

oh, shut down.

"No, you won't," Luke countered. "You're mine now. Nobody's going to melt you down. I just finished fixing you back up."

"Fixing me back up, sir?"

"Yeah, you two got kinda banged up when they intercepted you, I guess. And they cleared out your command systems, so I had to put some of your programming back in. But you should be fine now."

"Thank you very much, sir," the protocol droid said, clearly rather soothed. "Are you _quite_ sure we'll be fine?"

"Yeah, they already checked you out for all your Rebel information, I guess," Luke said. "So my father gave you to me."

"He seems like a very considerate man."

Luke abruptly put down his tools, mumbling something incoherent.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"I said, how's your arm working now?"

The protocol droid stretched his arm. "It seems quite functional, sir."

as functional as you ever are.

"And just what is _that_ supposed to mean?" Threepio huffed.

Luke frowned at the warbling astromech. _Gonna need to learn that beeping thing or something_. "How about you?" he asked Artoo.

like i said before, all systems operational.

"He claims to be fine, sir," Threepio answered. "Frankly, I think he's a bit rattled. But I don't believe you can do much about that."

ooh, smart guy.

Threepio primly ignored the sarcastic twittering from the other droid. "Might I ask who your father is, sir?" he inquired.

It was then that the door to Luke's bedroom hissed open, revealing the person in question without.

"Oh, my!" Threepio cried in renewed distress. "Master Luke, run!"

Luke eyed the droid before turning to his father. "Are all protocol droids like this?" he asked.

"This one is rather worrisome," Vader conceded, crossing his arms. "I have met with it before."

"Go, Master Luke! I'll distract him!"

"I'm fine, Threepio."

cool your circuits, Artoo chimed in.

"Oh, no, sir, we're all in terrible danger!" wailed Threepio, turning around distractedly.

"The power switch is beneath his head," Vader advised. Luke reached up and switched the protocol droid off. "I see you have them both functional again."

"Mostly," Luke nodded. He glanced down as Artoo's dome spun alertly, flashing a couple of lights. "I dunno what he's saying now."

"You will probably develop an ear for astromech code within a few months," Vader said. "Come now, little one."

Luke glowered at him as he stuck his tools back in their box. "I'm not little."

"Would you rather I call you son?"

Luke hesitated. Vader's jaw nearly dropped inside his mask when the boy said, "Yes."

It was a moment before he could answer, such was his surprise. "You would?"

Luke nodded, looking back down at his toolbox.

"Very well," Vader said slowly. "Come, my son."

Luke came. On impulse, Vader settled his arm on the boy's slight shoulders, and for once was not greeted with a shudder. Imbued with a deep satisfaction, he gave an approving squeeze with his hand and a caress with his thoughts. With pleasure he felt his son's shy response in the Force—almost completely free of fear!

He guided Luke to one of his personal rooms and began checking his young one's arm. To his further satisfaction, he found that the damage was almost completely healed now. By tomorrow the boy should be able to begin using it again safely and rebuilding the muscle; Luke was quite happy to hear it.

But he was even happier with Vader's next piece of news. "The Fleet will be jumping into hyperspace tomorrow," he announced as he retied the bandage. "We have a two-day jump to make."

Luke's eyes brightened with anticipation.

"As soon as the ship is in hyperspace, you have my permission to move anywhere within my quarters, excepting my chamber and office," Vader continued, though Luke knew that already. "I will be here much of the time."

Luke shifted rather uneasily at that information, and Vader was reminded that there was still a long path to be traveled before his son could truly begin to be easy around him. The boy might have decided to allow Vader to call him "son," but that was not the same as saying "father," which he had not yet done.

Careful not to alarm Luke, Vader reached out purposefully towards his mind to probe the complex emotional structure that had been slowly metamorphosing ever since the child had been restored to him. The young one stiffened up sharply at the first contact, fright flooding back into his eyes. In another moment his son's impressive array of mental shields flashed back up, knocking him away and immediately severing the bond between them. Vader tensed, expecting a resurgence of the pain that had haunted him for thirteen years—but when it came, he was surprised to find it much diminished.

He refocused on his son. Luke had scooted back from him, and was trembling slightly. Vader spent several moments debating the proper method for handling the little one's recalcitrance. He understood that Luke needed time to adjust to his new circumstances, that there was a history to be overcome. But a balance needed to be found between understanding and firmness. Was this the time to press the boy for obedience?

Yes. Yes, he would press this time. "Child, do not block me," he commanded.

The boy tensed defiantly. It seemed that neither of them cared to back down. But whether Luke liked it or not, he was Vader's child, and he must learn obedience at some point. Firmly he reached out and took hold of his son by the chin, preparing to push at the walls around the young mind—

But all of sudden the walls collapsed, under a torrent of raging emotion from within the child. Luke gave a choked cry, and as soon as Vader realized why he let the boy go, regretting his decision to press with every fiber of his being. This reminded his son of Coruscant—that was why he was so upset. Of Coruscant, and of how his father had treated him there.

_Easy, child_, he tried to soothe. _I will not hurt you again_.

Not surprisingly, his answer was a rapid series of remembered images and sensations over their restored bond, fraught with the terror and pain Luke had endured that regrettable day. Tiredly the dark lord reached out to grip the boy's shoulder in hopes of steadying him, but Luke scrambled back quickly, up onto his feet and out of the room. Vader stood and followed swiftly, catching his son just outside of the boy's room.

"Luke—" he began.

"Let go of me—_please_—"

And for once in his life, Vader decided to let go.

Luke didn't waste another second dashing into the safety of his room.


	18. Taking Hold, Letting Go

Author's Note: Hey all…A few managerial announcements to make. Firstly, thanks immensely to all my reviewers, who have put me over the 100 mark! It made me very excited.  Secondly, due to life, I won't be able to get you another update for a while. Thanksgiving's coming up, not mention some globetrotting. Globetrotting leads to jet lag, jet lag leads to long naps, long naps lead to less writing time…My apologies. However, in an attempt to make it up to you, this update is much longer than the last few, giving you everything I've written to date. Hopefully it should keep you all happy until I can pick my story back up. Enjoy!

…

Luke did not emerge until the next morning, giving his father plenty of time to consider the course of action he should take. Finally, wishing he had more of an affinity for these delicate matters but accepting he did not, he decided the best strategy was to sit the boy down as he had the first day and deal with the child's concerns and emotional baggage in one fell swoop. Accordingly, he waited until Luke wandered out in search of breakfast.

"Luke, come with me," he said, and took the boy into the dueling salle.

"I'm hungry," Luke objected quietly.

"Food can wait," Vader said tersely. "Sit." His son complied, subdued by his sharp tone. "You have been here for two weeks," the dark lord began when the child was settled. "You have had enough time to settle down. It is time we discussed more difficult matters."

Luke glanced up, but hurriedly returned his eyes to the salle floor.

"We both have questions we wish to ask," Vader said. "Answer mine, and I will answer yours." He proceeded to drill his son with questions about the boy's life to date—who he had lived with, where he had lived, what he liked. At first Luke was very hesitant, but as they went his answers began to come more easily. He seemed to sense that his father was genuinely interested in the answers. After a while, he even dared again to look up when he spoke.

The answers Vader got were confusing. Luke had grown up with Owen and Beru Lars on the same Tatooine moisture farm where Vader had met them all those years ago, the same place where his mother was buried. He listened as Luke spoke softly of his few memories of Cliegg Lars, who it appeared had died when the little one was still very little indeed. Yet while he remembered Cliegg from his youngest years, he could not recall ever having met Obi-Wan, no matter how Vader pressed him to rack his memory.

"He used to live way out past the Dune Sea," Luke said, gesturing to indicate the great distance between his home and Kenobi's. "I didn't hardly ever see him except a couple times in Anchorhead."

This made no sense whatsoever.

"Uncle Owen didn't like him," Luke continued. "I don't know why."

Vader couldn't imagine why either. "You had no training in the ways of the Force?" he pressed, bewildered.

Luke shook his head. "Didn't know about it," he said.

"When did he take you?" Vader finally rumbled.

"After I turned ten," Luke answered. "I had a nightmare, and I think—I think you were in it. And I told Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru and I went back to bed, and when I woke up I was on the ship with Obi-Wan." He shrugged a little, playing with his fingers and staring down at the floor.

So Obi-Wan had not taken Luke away until the boy began dreaming of his father? He must have feared Vader would sense the boy, to have removed him so abruptly from his home. But _why_ had Obi-Wan not simply kept Luke in the first place, and begun training the young one from infancy as per Jedi practice?

The dark lord continued to press his son with questions about his time with Obi-Wan, driven with the need to know the old man's hidden motives. So focused was he on his purpose that he failed to notice Luke's increasing agitation until the child abruptly drew his knees up, hugging himself tightly, biting his lip, blinking fiercely.

"Child?" Vader asked, confused by the young one's sudden display of distress. "What is wrong?"

His son shook his head hard. "N-nothing," he insisted.

A blatant lie, but Vader was warned from previous experience not to press his son for the truth. They sat in silence for a time.

"What happened to Obi-Wan?" Luke whispered finally into the stillness. His gaze moved back up from the floor to Vader's mask.

Vader was suddenly struck by the sheer pain emanating from his son, and at last he realized the cause of his son's anguish. Whatever the relationship between Vader and Obi-Wan, Luke had lived with the man and had been protected by him; and their separation on Corellia must have been sudden, the loss shocking for his son, especially after removal from his uncle's care. Being drilled by questions about Obi-Wan must have forced the child to recall many bad memories.

Well. It was always his opinion that the truth was the best route, and surely Luke knew this truth already. "He is dead, Luke."

As expected, the information did not startle his son. "Did you kill him?"

"No, son."

Luke frowned. "Then what happened to him?"

"He killed himself," Vader said, unable to repress a twinge of rage at the memory.

"I don't believe that!"

_What a surprise_, Vader thought rather caustically—but he suspected that the boy's violent denial covered deep hurt and shock. He was right. After a painful silence, Luke looked back up with fresh tears in his eyes.

"Why?" he asked desperately. "Why?"

The child had much, much more than Obi-Wan's suicide in mind.

Vader reached across to touch him as an overwhelming tide of all the stress and pain the boy had endured over the last several months came crashing suddenly through their bond. "Oh, my son…"

Luke didn't resist the contact; he buried his face in his knees, trying to hold back sobs. Vader sat uncomfortably, his hand resting on the boy's shoulder, while his son struggled for control. But Luke had been caging up these tears for months now, and he could do it no longer. In a few seconds he gave up the battle; his small shoulders heaved unrestrained beneath Vader's broad palm.

Neither Anakin Skywalker nor Darth Vader had ever felt so inept as he did for nearly the whole next minute, so completely awkward. But then Luke began to cry out, and every trace of awkwardness vanished in less than a heartbeat.

"Father—_Father_—"

Vader quickly shifted his bulk over to sit alongside his son, rather than opposite him, drawing the boy under his arm just as he would have had it been Sara or Sandra after one of their nightmares. There was suddenly no difference between this child he did not know and the two he had seen born.

_Hush, Luke. I'm here. _

His son huddled against him, ignoring the cold, hard armor and the stiff leather. _Father, it hurts, it hurts! _his spirit cried instinctively; equally instinctively the father reached out to send waves of soothing, trying to wash away the pain. He had not realized how much the boy had suffered—from the ache of childhood longings for his father, through the strain of leaving his family, losing Obi-Wan, losing his family, fleeing the Empire, right up until now; every repressed hurt was pouring out from the place where it had been hidden away from sight.

It was a long time before his son finally grew quiet again. The heaving shoulders slowed to a tremble, and at last became still. Drained, Luke leaned silently against Vader.

There was no fear.

That was the first thing Vader realized when the wild, swirling black pools of emotion in the Force calmed. The boy at his side was no longer afraid of him—and he had called him _Father_. Deep joy swept through his scarred body and soul.

It felt too good for him to care about how completely un-Sithly the emotion was.

_On Alderaan, a couple of days later…_

Han had to admit he was pretty impressed by Her Little Highnessness' dye-dunking operation. Though the word was running around the palace that she was in unofficial disgrace, she hadn't left any proof of guilt behind them, and Han had it on good authority that she'd endured two interrogation sessions from her parents without cracking. Unable to prove his daughter's guilt, Bail Organa had been forced to concede her innocence, and no punishment had been issued. They'd gotten clean away, though obviously she would be in some measure of disfavor, especially given that that Imperial flunky what's-his-face was still "on retreat at Castanta."

Meaning, of course, that the bright purple dye concentrate hadn't vanished yet. Han grinned wickedly as he fiddled away on one of his hyperdrive gauges. Sith, but it felt good to give the Empire a hit for a change, even one as minor as that. He hoped that governor or whatever he was stayed stuck at Castanta for a year.

Han, however, did not plan on hanging around Alderaan to see how long it took the guy to restore his dignity. He'd wait until Senator Organa found out about Luke, and then he'd be off. Han didn't have any krethin' idea what he was going to do with himself, but this blasted palace was getting on his nerves. That spunky princess might not be afraid of dirty fingernails, but the rest of them were another story, one Han didn't care to hear.

Besides, it was high time he got Calrissian back for that whole debacle on Coruscant…mark up another one for the kid.

With a sudden, heavy sigh, Han set down his tools and flopped dejectedly down on the deck, staring wearily at the gauge he'd been rewiring. Luke would've had this thing fixed in no time, blast the kid…

"So this is your ship?"

Han whirled around, brandishing his hydrospanner, his mind flying back to the kidnapping incident of a couple weeks ago—but it was just the princess in another one of her white dresses.

"You ever walk up and say hello like normal people instead of sneakin' around?" Han demanded irritably, picking himself up off the deck.

Her Royalness crossed her arms and scowled at him. Han's irritation vanished—the kid would have looked at him just like that.

"It's not my fault you didn't hear me coming," she retorted. "I wasn't being quiet."

Well, maybe he should have heard her. But he'd been thinking about Luke. He muttered something that might vaguely have had an apologetic tendency.

"So," Leia repeated, looking around, "this is your ship?"

Han nodded. "The _Millennium Falcon_."

Leia raised her eyebrows archly. Han was reminded of all the times he and Luke had bantered on about the name. "That's…unusual," she said. "It looks like a pretty old ship."

"YT-1300," Han said. "Pretty old, all right, but we revamped her, so she flies great."

Leia nodded. "You and your brother?" she asked.

Han nodded past his tight stomach, anticipating the next question. She didn't disappoint.

"Where is your brother?"

"He, uh, he's with relatives," Han managed, lamely trying to remember the story they'd come to Alderaan using.

"Oh. Here in Aldera?"

"Uh, yeah. Aldera."

Leia nodded again. Han breathed a sigh of relief. "Well, it's good that your ship got here safely," she said.

His stomach clenched up again. "Yeah," he mumbled. "Real good." To forestall any further questions along that line, Han demanded, "What're you doing here anyway?"

"I was just trying to be hospitable," she said in exasperation. "You can be a real nerf-herder."

"Hey—" Han began angrily, but Her Princessness was already marching irritably off the ship. Han ran after her down the ramp, dashing in front of her and pointing his finger. "Look, Princess, I got a lot on my mind, okay?" he snapped, backpedaling to keep up her pace. "We don't all have it as cushy as you do."

Leia stopped suddenly, crossing her arms and regarding him. "Like what?" she asked him challengingly.

"Like findin' myself a job," Han barked. "And like takin' care of my brother." _Kreth, Luke, how am I gonna get you out of there? _"Cause I don't have rich politician parents to do it for me. Or any other kind of parents. Lots of people don't, sister!"

To his surprise, Leia's expression softened. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I didn't know."

Han shrugged, far more bothered about Luke than anything else. "Now you do," he said, stepping aside with his hands shoved in his trouser pockets. Leia made no move to leave. The girl glanced down for a few seconds before looking back up.

"My real parents are dead," she said abruptly. "I'm adopted."

Han was floored, and it must have showed, because Leia gave him a little smile. "Maybe we're not so different," she suggested.

Boy, that must have been difficult to say. "Nah," Han objected honestly. "I think we probably are."

She laughed, and Han was shocked to discover that it was the most beautiful laugh he'd ever heard in his life. _Sheesh, Solo, snap out of it! She's what, _thirteen_? And bratty besides! _

"Probably," she agreed, starting out of the hangar again. "Good luck."

"Hey—thanks." Han shifted uneasily, working his hands in his pockets. He wasn't used to expressing gratitude. He rarely had occasion.

The princess smiled a little at him again before leaving.

Mightily distraught, cursing himself for liking the girl at all and _especially_ for saying thank you, Han stalked back up the ramp to his gauge. His sole consolation was remembering that she'd apologized and he hadn't.

He'd only been back at the hyperdrive gauge for fifteen minutes, however, before footsteps became audible down the hallway. Quickly Han jumped up, grabbing his hydrospanner again—he relaxed as Bail Organa's stately figure appeared around the curve of the corridor.

"Uh, hey, sir," he said, awkwardly trying to conceal the spanner.

The senator nodded to him. "Hello, Han. Do you have a few minutes?"

Well, of course he did when a senator was asking. He couldn't very well object to the ruler of the planet he was on… "Yeah, gimme a second to lock this down." Han turned back to the pressure gauge to neutralize the charges in the wiring so the blasted ship wouldn't start some freak fire.

"I have word of your friend," the senator said when he turned back around, trying to clean his hands off.

Han instantly forgot about everything else. "Luke?" he breathed. Dear Force, something _at last_!

"Yes," the senator said, and he smiled at Han. The teenage Corellian relaxed all the way down to his toes. Luke was alright. He was alright.

"Luke is alive and healthy," the senator reported. "I had agents sent onto Vader's flagship to track him. He is still on the _Executor_, apparently being kept in Vader's personal quarters."

Han felt a twinge. Poor kid, he couldn't be happy being cooped up in a couple of rooms like that—particularly not with the galaxy's most infamous Jedi killer ever.

"I received some video of Luke," the senator continued, pulling a data chip from his pocket. "Would you like to see it?" Han nodded sharply.

"Come on, I got a projector in the rec room."

…

The recording opened to show them a very close-up view of a blond, blue-eyed boy leaning over the camera with a grin.

"Hey, you work!" he said brightly. The recording gave the sound a slightly tinny quality, but young Luke Skywalker's voice was clearly recognizable, if the face had changed somewhat.

A brief conversation followed between the boy and the two droids—See-Threepio could be heard in the background, though the recording was solidly kept on Luke. The child appeared to be unharmed, if his clothes were rather too big for him. He wore a Navy pilot's off-duty jacket, without any insignia and with the sleeves rolled up so as not to overwhelm his short arms. There were tools visible as Artoo swept his recording eye around the room, which looked to be a reasonably comfortable bedroom.

"May I ask where we are, sir?" Threepio was heard to say.

"On the _Executor_," came Luke's matter-of-fact answer. There was no fright evident in the child as he answered.

The droid fussed on for a while in the recording before the subject of Luke's father arose—albeit somewhat edited…

"…my guardian gave you to me."

"He seems like a very considerate man." Pause, mumbling. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

"I said, how's your arm working now?"

A little more dialogue, and then…

"May I ask who your guardian is, sir?" A wooshing sound was heard as the camera swiveled around to focus on the door—wherein was standing none other than Darth Vader himself. Bail stiffened, despite having seen the recording before, as the protocol droid's distressed warning came from behind the camera.

"Are all protocol droids like this?" Luke was heard to ask.

Vader answered in his deep bass, crossing his arms. "This one is rather worrisome. I have met with it before."

"Go, Master Luke! I'll distract him!"

"I'm fine, Threepio."

"The power switch is beneath his head," Vader spoke up again—Threepio's wailing quickly shut off. "I see you have them both functional again."

"Mostly. I dunno what he's saying now."

"You will probably develop an ear for astromech code within a few months. Come now, little one."

Luke's tone grew irritated. "I'm not little."

"Would you rather I call you Luke?"

After a pause came a "Yes."

"You would? Very well. Come, Luke." Luke again appeared in the camera's scope going over to Vader—who actually patted the boy across his shoulders as the two of them left.

The projector went black. Beside Bail on the rec room bench, Han slumped into the seat with relief. "Looks like himself again," the teenager muttered.

Bail gave the boy another friendly smile, ruthlessly burying his guilt alive. Firstly, that wasn't the only recording he'd received of Luke—there was another, much less reassuring glimpse of the boy tearing back into his room not long afterwards and locking himself behind a different door. He felt quite guilty about misleading Han.

He didn't feel nearly as guilty editing away all the references to the true relationship between Luke and Vader. It was an act of protection for Luke, and for Leia, and for himself and Breha.

As for the first piece of his deception—well, he'd done it to protect Han from himself. For if Han believed Luke to be in any danger or pain, Bail was sure the youngster would go after his friend. Solo's loyalty was incredible, given what Bail had learned during the last several weeks about the Corellian's past, but it would be useless if it got him killed. The boy had promise, Bail felt quite sure of it.

"Well," Bail said, "we can conclude that Luke is in no danger, can't we? In fact, he seems fairly happy."

"Yeah," Han mumbled. "He does."

"Han, it's time you let go," Bail said earnestly, facing the young man. "You did a very brave and honorable thing in taking care of Luke, but your job is done. I know that he is your friend and you're very concerned, but Luke will be safe now."

"You better be sithin' sure," Han said fiercely, punching on the recording again and watching.

"I am sure," Bail said as the dialogue rambled on in the background. "See, he's not afraid of Vader. And look at how Vader is treating him."

After studying the recording closely three times, Han finally conceded that Bail was right. "Well, I guess that's that," the young Corellian said, with a note of despondency in his voice. He cleared his throat and sat back, crossing his arms and blinking stubbornly. "Guess I'll be leavin'."

"You needn't leave, Han," Bail objected. "I'm very grateful for what you've done for Luke, and I'd like to repay you as best I can. There are some good flight schools on Alderaan, if you're interested. I can arrange for you to be enrolled in one of them, and I can find a place in Aldera for you to stay. You'd be most welcome to remain."

But Han shook his head. "No thanks. This planet's a little too nice." He glanced around. "I've got the ship. I'll figure something out."

"At least allow me to do something for the ship, then," Bail urged. "My mechanics can upgrade, renovate, anything you like."

Han glanced up, and Bail's stomach sank at the mercenary, mischievous gleam that had come into those brown eyes. "Anything, huh?" Han said sweetly.

_Aboard the _Executor_ again…_

Vader was very pleased with the progress his son had been making. Although Luke had been horribly embarrassed following his brief emotional collapse, and neither of them had referred to the incident since, the boy had continued to call him father. He generally refused to meet his father's gaze whenever he said it, and often it was not much more than a whisper, but surely such inhibitions would pass soo—

Just approaching the door to his office, he lurched backward all of a sudden, yanked by a force that had somehow fastened around his neck, and he had to arch his back sharply to help the servomotors in his bionic legs keep him upright. He spun immediately, searching for the cause, and sensed his son crouched behind the corner of the hall, radiating amusement. The amusement performed a rapid metamorphosis into alarm as Vader reached out with the Force to grab Luke and pull him out in into view.

Before fear could take hold, though, he levitated the boy a meter off the deck and flipped him upside down. He calmly proceeded to spin and bounce his son mercilessly in all directions. Luke yelped and writhed desperately in midair, fighting to escape, without success. "Okay, okay—stop!"

"Will you refrain from deliberately stepping on my cape in the future?" Vader rumbled.

"Yes, yes, put me down!" Vader promptly released the boy, who of course landed hard on the deck

"Ow!" Luke rubbed fiercely at his head. "Great. Now I have a concussion."

"Hardly, son."

"Well, if I die of brain damage, it's your fault."

Vader stiffened all over, every scrap of amusement fleeing the situation suddenly. "Are you all right?" he inquired, helping the boy up.

Luke gave him a suspicious look. "Yeah, _I'm_ all right."

The boy had clearly sensed his sudden change of mood. Not desiring to go into the particulars of why such a light, teasing statement should so drastically alter his mindset, Vader chose to brush it off instead. "I would not wish to lose you again, son." He kept his tone as light as was possible for the vocabulator, but Luke wasn't fooled.

"Falling a meter isn't going to kill me," he said, crossing his arms. Like his mother would have done, Vader noted a bit numbly.

"Stranger things have happened, my son," he said aloud.

Luke looked as though he very much wanted to make a smart answer, but he wasn't quite _that_ bold yet. "What are you doing?" he asked instead.

"I have work."

Luke tried to lean around him and peek into the forbidden realm of the office. "Do you do _anything_ but work?" he wondered aloud.

"I do many things, child."

Luke glared at the word _child_. "Like what?"

"Train in the ways of the Force," Vader rumbled.

"And?"

"Sleep."

Luke eyed him in disbelief. "That's it?"

"Most days, yes."

"So all Sith lords do is work, train, and sleep? Why the kreth would you want to be one?"

"Watch your mouth," Vader barked shortly. A curse upon that young Corellian for teaching his son such language! He didn't even want to think about what Padmé's reaction would have been…Too late he realized how curt and displeased he'd sounded. Surely his headstrong son would not react well to that.

But he sensed no irritation from the boy. In fact, it was mild guilt that quickly flowed over their bond. Luke dropped his head so rapidly Vader thought it must be half a reflex. "Sorry," he actually said softly.

He could tell the child meant it. Well, Kenobi had taught his son at least _one_ lesson of which Vader could safely approve…

"Anyway, why did you want to be one?"

His dejection certainly hadn't lasted long. "Power is a great attractant, son," he finally answered. Luke's expression promptly switched to disapproval, and Vader felt a familiar stab of that resilient hatred for his old master. Kenobi had practically inundated his child with the skewed, arrogant views of the Jedi, blinding and corrupting his son's mind, training him against his own father. It would be _years_ before he could eradicate all of the old man's influence—

"And having power makes you happy?" a young voice broke into his ranting thoughts.

Vader began to answer with a firm _yes_, intended as the prelude to a corrective lecture on proper principles of government, but was forced out of honor to stop as the brightly smiling, identical faces of his precious little daughters rose before his mind's eye, along with the bleak memories of life between Padmé's death and the twins' birth. "It is one of a very few things that does," he amended.

"What else does?"

"You do, my son." He touched the suddenly shy blond mop of hair for a moment, debating whether it was yet time to tell Luke about Sara and Sandra. But that would surely take time, and he was still abysmally behind in his work from those several months of recuperation…

"So before I got here you were just happy because you got to run the galaxy?"

Yes, it was definitely time. Work would simply have to wait, difficult as it was for him to push it aside after all these years of being obsessed by it. "No, child." Vader drew in a deep, bracing breath. "Come with me, and I will show you the other reasons why."

Luke's Force presence lit up with intense curiosity as Vader brought the boy inside his office. He settled down in the seat his father gestured him to and swiveled it around to see everything he could of the office while Vader began unlocking the appropriate files on his computer. "As you know, son, I have a residence on Coruscant," he began. "I also have one on the world of Vjun, known as Bast Castle. It is quite remote, and likely in a few months I will move you there. You will feel less restricted."

"So…having a castle makes you happy?"

"What is at the castle does," Vader told him. Unable to think of a better technique for informing his son, he switched on the image projector, and smiled as Sara and Sandra's bright little faces lit it up.

…

Luke stared for a few seconds at the holoprojector, trying to comprehend why it was showing him two little girls. "Huh?" he finally said, switching his gaze up to his father.

His father put a hand on his shoulder, and Luke felt his stomach sink. He only ever did that when he thought Luke was or was going to be very upset. "These are your sisters, Luke," his father rumbled.

Luke turned numbly back to look at the holoprojector. "I have sisters?" he finally asked in a soft, blank voice.

His father nodded, pulling Luke's chair a little closer to the holoprojector. "Sara is on the left and Sandra on the right."

Luke sat watching the picture for a few more seconds before the blank state of shock began to wear off. Suddenly his mind began to spin with questions and odd emotions. "Where did they come from? How old are they? Do I have a stepmother? Are—"

"One at a time, child," Vader said. "They are almost two and a half years old. They have exactly the same parents as you do."

"Then—my mother…?"

"No," Vader said. "Your mother died when you were born."

Confusion swirled through his head. "Then how can they have the same mother as I do?" Luke demanded.

"I still had your mother's genetic records," his father continued. "I arranged with doctors to have your sisters artificially born. It is a process used by many families with enough money to pay for it. Usually both parents are still alive, but that is not necessary, and I desired a child." He rubbed Luke's shoulders reassuringly. "I did not then know that you were alive."

"You didn't know about me?"

"Your mother was pregnant with you when she died," his father continued. "I thought for many years that you had died with her."

Luke suddenly remembered how his father had reacted when he'd joked about it being his father's fault if he died from being dropped on his head. "Do _they_ know about _me_?" he asked.

"Not yet, young one. I have not been back to Bast Castle to tell them. When I return, you will come with me and meet them." Luke huddled up in the chair, staring again at the two unfamiliar faces in the holoprojector. He didn't know what he was supposed to say. It wasn't anything the same as when he had found out about his father. He hadn't ever thought about having little sisters. He didn't know if he liked the idea much, or a little, or not at all. His head seemed to be swirling and spinning like hyperspace, emotions getting all mixed up like the light from the stars.

So intensely confused was he that he hardly noticed it when his father's mind brushed against his. But he did notice when his father spun the chair around so that Luke was facing him.

"You are confused," his father stated. "And upset."

"Am I not supposed to be?" Luke said rather bitterly. All of a sudden his emotions began to clarify—he was angry and resentful and frustrated and…jealous. "Why didn't you tell me before?" _Why doesn't _anybody_ tell me?!!! _his mind screamed.

His father was rubbing him again, and Luke felt his mind touched again as Vader tried to placate his tangled thoughts; furiously he drew back, wanting an answer that wouldn't be good enough so that he could be _mad_.

"You were having enough difficulty adjusting," his father said. "It would have been insupportable to force you to handle further shock. You required time to recover, my child."

It was completely true and it made sense, but Luke didn't care, because he simply _wanted_ to be mad, mad at his father and at Obi-Wan and at his aunt and uncle for never telling him the truth, and even more mad because all of them had good reasons for doing it and he _shouldn't_ be mad at them. _It's not fair, it's not _fair…

"Life rarely is, my son," his father said gently, squeezing his shoulder again. "But it is not a bad thing to have sisters."

Luke shook his head in agreement, his angry emotions beginning to fade slowly. "Why it couldn't be _brothers_," he muttered, still a bit resentful.

He caught a flash of rare amusement from his father. "My condolences," Vader rumbled, patting him atop the head. "You will learn to like them regardless."

Luke crossed his arms stubbornly. A girl was a girl, no matter how short or tall any particular specimen might happen to be, and the only girl he'd ever liked was Aunt Beru, and she didn't count. No _way_ was he ever going to like being outnumbered by his little sisters, even if they _were_ only two. "So do I have an _older_ sister too that I get to find out about next year?" he demanded crossly.

"No, little one," his father assured him.

Luke felt a slight breath of relief.

"However," his father continued thoughtfully, "I believe that you do have two older female cousins on Naboo…"

Luke dropped his head atop the desk with a groan.


	19. The Recording

Author's Note: Hey all! My apologies for imposing such a long wait on all of my readers, but hey, life happens whether an author likes it or not. I further apologize for the fact that this chapter is quite a bit shorter than most that I've posted. I've only just gotten back to my story today, and I figured I should post something to break the famine, even if it isn't as much as I normally do. So…here you all are! I would ask that you take the time to leave a review if there is anything you like or dislike; I appreciate any comments that are politely expressed.

_A couple of weeks later, on Alderaan…_

Unfortunately for the senator, Bail Organa was as good as his word. He'd said anything—and Han Solo, still a Corellian street rat at heart, had most definitely pumped that _anything_ for all it was worth. He'd wrung a complete round of systems upgrades, a brand new state-of-the-art sensor suite, and latest-generation sublight engines out of Alderaan—and even a specialized drop-down cannon that he could operate from the cockpit. Kenobi would never in a million years recognize that hunk of space debris he'd given Han, if he could see the _Falcon_ now.

In fact, Han was getting to be pretty darn attached to this crate, especially now that she'd been properly spiffed up. Inside, that was—outside, she still looked like a museum exhibit rather than something that had any right to be flying. But Han rather liked the character of the battered, mismatched hull plating on the outside.

That, and lots of the laser scorch marks reminded him of times with Luke. Kreth, but he really missed that kid. So much so, in fact, that he would find himself returning to the rec room holoprojector at least once or twice a day to watch that recording of Luke, again and again, reassuring himself that his friend really was okay. Part of him still couldn't believe how attached he was to the kid, especially since Luke was three or four years younger than him. But however the cards had been dealt, Luke had wound up being the closest friend Han could remember having, and Sith freakin' stang it anyway, he _missed_ the kid.

He tried to tell himself it was because Luke was a krethin' good copilot, not to mention one heck of a gunner and a regular magician when it came to fixing things, and he wasn't likely to find help that good for free ever again…

_Hey, snap out of it! Organa said you gotta let go, and he's krethin' well right. You don't go messin' with Darth sithin' Vader, buster! _Darn right. He had everything he needed. _Here's what you do, Solo. You go watch that clip of him one more time, and then you erase it clean outta the hard drives. And then you're gonna toss Organa a thank-you note, high-tail it outta system, and that's that. _

He set his jaw in determination and marched up the ramp of his ship into the rec room, where he sat himself deliberately down in the seat and switched on the holoprojector. Despite his fierce resolve, he felt a twinge deep in his stomach as Luke's face reappeared.

…"Hey, you work!"…

Han sat dismally, indulging in one last bout of remorse and reminding himself of the reassuring story, about Anakin Skywalker and Darth Vader's close friendship and how it was now protecting an orphaned Luke. There, there was the line right now…

"…My guardian gave you to me."

"He seems like a very consid—"

Han's hand suddenly flashed out, pausing the recording as his eyes narrowed. Something—something wasn't right. He didn't know what it was, but something hadn't been quite right. Quickly he moved the play point back to watch the scene over, eyes sharp for that something that was out of place.

"…My guardian gave you to me."

"He seems like a—"

Frustrated, Han rewound the recording a second time. He still couldn't put his finger on that something that was out of synch. Kreth it, what was it that was catching his eye? Why hadn't this bothered him before?

"…My guardian…"

Again and again Han ran the video back, searching the image sequence for some clue as to what was bothering him. Try as he would, he couldn't find it to save his life.

_Must just be my eyes playin' tricks._ Han tried to shrug it off and just let the video play through, but at the last frame he resolved to go back once more.

"My guardian gave you to me—"

Han suddenly sat up much straighter, bringing the play point back again. Yes—yes. His eyes narrowed sharply. That was it.

Luke's mouth was out of synch with what he was supposedly saying. He didn't know exactly what his friend _was_ saying, but it was only one word that was wrong—guardian. He could tell because Luke was only mouthing two syllables, and guardian was three.

_My _something_ gave you to me_.

Somebody had altered the recording.

But why? Han leaned back again, his brow furrowed. Obviously, Luke's "guardian" was Vader; he was talking about Vader. But "guardian" wasn't the word he had really used. So what had he called Vader that would have to be edited away?

All of a sudden, Han's certainties about Luke's situation vanished. Whatever his friend called Vader was the key to figuring out what their relationship was like. Han felt it was a safe bet that one way or another, that relationship must be a lot different than he'd thought. The word that had been taken out couldn't be _that_ close to guardian, or no one would have wanted it gone. All he could be sure of was that there was something very important going on between Luke and Vader that _he didn't know about_.

Maybe Luke _wasn't_ all that safe.

_What the crap am I gonna do_? he thought wildly. Finding no other way to vent his battling emotions, Han swung his fist down hard on top of the game table, succeeding only in bruising his hand. _Kreth it!_

The only thing he could decide upon was that, one way or another, he _had_ to find out what that missing word really was. Again Han switched on the recording, killing the sound, focusing on the movement of Luke's mouth to try and figure out what his friend was saying, but he couldn't interpret it no matter how many times he tried…

He started sharply when an actual voice spoke not far off. "What's that?" a very definitely female voice demanded curiously. His head shot up to see none other than that blasted snooping princess in the entrance to his rec room.

But he couldn't afford to get mad—he had to think of an explanation fast. "It's, uh, one of my cousins," he said quickly, pausing the recording. "Got some holo-letters."

"Oh, that's nice," she said cheerfully, crossing towards him. "Does your cousin build droids?"

"Oh, yeah," Han lied smoothly. "His favorite hobby." All of a sudden he got a brilliant, _brilliant_ idea. "But, ah, the sound files got screwed up in transmission," he continued. "I can't quite figure out what he's saying right here." Carefully, he rewound the recording and pressed _play_…

" 'My father gave them to me,' " Leia said promptly when he stopped the recording.

Han was in awe. "Where'd you learn to do that?"

"Politicians are good at reading lips," she shrugged. "It's just a skill we have."

He snorted. "You're not a politician."

"I'm going to be," she retorted. "And I've practiced in the royal court."

"Well, just don't forget about us normal people when you're shakin' hands with the Emperor," Han muttered, switching off the recording before she fastforwarded it to Vader's entrance or something. That might raise a few more questions than he cared to try answering…

The shrimpy princess looked more than a bit ticked, but she didn't snap at him. "I came down because I heard you planned on leaving today," she said. "Where are you going?"

"I'm, ah, picking up my brother and we're headin' back to Dantooine," Han fibbed, working hard to remember the proper storyline.

"Oh. Well, maybe I'll see you again if I come back to the relief projects with my father," she suggested politely.

"Yeah, maybe," Han hedged. "Good luck with that whole politician thing." He tried to keep the disdain out of his voice and expression.

"Thank you," she said, in a tone chilly enough that he knew he hadn't quite hidden his feelings about politicians. "Have a good flight." In a few more moments she was gone.

Han instantly slumped in the seat with the weight of the shock he felt.

_My _father _gave them to me_.

His _father_?!!

No way could Luke still be talking about Vader, no way! That made no sense!

But…Bail had said that Anakin Skywalker, Luke's Jedi father, had fallen out with Vader and died in the Purges. A Jedi would definitely not be hiding aboard an _Imperial warship_, for _sure_ not on the same warship as a Sith lord! No way in this galaxy would Darth Vader be protecting a Jedi! Taking care of the kid of one who used to be his pal and had died was one thing. Hiding an actual living, breathing Jedi was completely another.

No. Luke had to be talking about Vader, not a Jedi skulking around on board the _Executor_. But that only left two choices—either Han Solo, Corellian street rat, had been babysitting the kid of the galaxy's second most powerful being, or Vader had tricked Luke.

The first possibility was too insanely outlandish to even be considered, so steep were the odds against and so bizarre was the idea of Darth Vader being _anybody_'s father. Which meant Luke was being tricked by Vader. Yeah—that had to be it.

Grimly Han switched off the recording and marched towards the cockpit, starting up the engines. He was darned if he knew when, how, why, or where, but one way or another he was by the Force going to rescue Luke!


	20. Sibling Revelry

Author's Note: Thanks for all the kind reviews for my last shrimpy update…Sorry it took me a while, but this one's a bit longer, I think. Hope you will all enjoy this update.

_About four and a half months later…_

There was only one other occasion in her entire life that had driven Miyr to a state of nervousness so severe as to border on panic. It had come nearly three years ago, the stressful day that Lord Vader had summoned her up into his personal chambers and interviewed her for hours. This wasn't quite as bad—not yet—but she sensed definite potential for emotional strain.

Lord Vader had contacted Bast Castle personally last week, announcing his imminent arrival. A fairly rare incident in the time that she'd been serving at the dark lord's holding on Vjun, even when his daughters were there to attract his attention, but that was certainly not enough to really ruffle Miyr's theoretical feathers. The problem was, he had also announced upon arriving in system an hour ago that the castle security devices were to be deactivated immediately and that all personnel, military or household staff, were to be cleared from a designated route that went from the hangar to Vader's personal chambers.

The dark lord was now within his personal chambers and had ordered the security systems reactivated. He'd been in the castle for a full forty-five minutes and none of the castle's caretakers, not even Miyr or Captain Landre, had seen him. Never before had Vader behaved so mysteriously towards her. His behavior was severely disconcerting. Miyr had no idea what he expected of her now. She had finally retreated to her personal quarters, making sure the communication lines to her were open and attended, and was now sitting in her favorite chair wondering when she would be given any orders. She was especially concerned about Sara and Sandra—she had been about to feed them and put them down for their much-needed nap, necessities which she could hardly expect their father to recall given that shipboard time was probably far different from their time zone planetside—

Her com buzzed. She snatched it feverishly, hoping it would give her direction.

_Five minutes later…_

Well, direction she had…but her nerves were no less soothed. This was only the second time she had been summoned directly to Lord Vader's private chambers—_his_ private chambers, not the sections of his quarters which were reserved for the twins. Reminding herself sternly that everything had turned out perfectly fine last time, Miyr announced her arrival over the quarters intercom. The door to Vader's inner sanctum promptly swished open, revealing the imposing figure of her employer within.

"Miyr," he said, inclining his helmet just a little in greeting.

She steeled herself for whatever straining ordeal awaited. "Welcome home, my lord," she answered, successfully banning a waver of uncertainty from her voice.

But he was aware of her emotions, as always. "You may rest at ease," he informed her. "I will be on Vjun for one week. When I depart, your duties will assume a new aspect. I have summoned you here to explain these new duties."

She felt a soft, soothing flow of relief taming the butterflies in her stomach. "I am at my lord's service, as always," she said.

Vader turned from her and gestured slightly at an opposite doorway.

Never in a millennium, not even after her first meeting with Sara and Sandra, had she expected Vader to throw her such a completely unforeseeable curve ball. Out of the doorway, a slightly built blond boy edged slowly into the light of the room, his blue eyes flicking back and forth between Miyr and Vader.

Surely—_surely_ this boy wasn't—

"Miyr, this is Luke," Vader rumbled. "My son."

…

Luke was more than a little nervous himself. This Miyr person was quite different from any other female he'd ever known. She was a far cry from Tatooine's worn, sand-weathered housewives. She was pretty, for one—not drop-dead gorgeous, like the painted-up women in the magazines he'd seen around, but her features had a fineness to them, and she had big, pleasant brown eyes. Her eyes reminded him of somebody, he thought, but he couldn't remember who. She wasn't tall, but she was slender, wearing a smoothly draping dress of dark blue, and where Aunt Beru's hair had always been pinned up in a bun, Miyr's fell over her shoulder in one elaborate braid.

He listened as his father introduced him, and watched as Miyr's already-big eyes widened even more. It was several seconds before the lady could say anything. Her shock stirred a myriad of strong sensations in the Force. Luke, being at exactly that uncomfortable point where he was trained enough to be highly sensitive to such sensations without yet knowing how to handle them, shrank back from the discomfort. His father steadied him with the firm mental touch of experience.

"Hello, Luke," Miyr finally said, regaining control and reaching her hand out to him. Luke shook it strongly, remembering Obi-Wan's insistence on meaning handshakes. As Miyr's surprise eased away, he began to feel more confident.

"Hello," he responded, soft but clear.

"Luke will be remaining at Bast Castle," his father continued. "I will see to it personally that the necessary arrangements are made for his accommodation prior to my departure. Before I leave, I expect that you will be well acquainted with him."

Miyr straightened up in front of him, turning back to his father. "Certainly, my lord. Are there any arrangements you desire me to manage?"

"Yes. You will see to it that a suitable wardrobe is procured for him. If I find I have any further requirements, I will notify you. Prior to my departure, I will ensure that you understand all my expectations for his care fully."

"I will see to it immediately, my lord. May I have his measurements?"

Luke watched curiously as his father handed Miyr the chip he'd put together a little while ago on board the _Executor_. "That will be all for now, Miyr. I will notify you when I have need of you again."

The elegant woman bowed slightly. "As you wish, my lord. Good evening, Luke." She gave him a smile—the first one he'd seen since coming to live with his father—and departed the quarters. Luke watched her go, fascinated despite his declared disdain for the opposite gender.

The aforesaid disdain was quickly recollected, however, when his father took him by the shoulder and announced, "It is time you were introduced to your sisters. They are most anxious."

Luke felt familiar twinges of dread. Though he'd had a long time to get used to the idea of having twin sisters, he hadn't really managed it yet, and his dread of the coming encounter had been building steadily throughout their journey to Vjun. They were still just a theory to him—not real, not yet. He could think and suppose about them all he wanted, talk about them with his father all his father wanted; yet as long as he didn't see them, they might as well not exist. But that was going to change now…

His father led him up to a door, and Luke instinctively knew that as soon as that door opened his life was going to be drastically altered yet again. A sudden anticipating fear gripped him out of the blue, and his feet seemed to grow roots through the floor.

…

Vader turned in surprise as Luke stopped in his tracks. The boy had not behaved this way in weeks, not since he'd been somewhat traumatized by that incident in the salle, with the dueling droid and the cleaning solvents and the not-quite-empty tibanna gas cartridge. "It's all right, my son," he reassured his boy, as he had when trying to coax Luke back into the salle after that particular episode. "I promise."

Trust was still a shaky thing between the two of them, but with a little more coaxing, Vader was able to bring Luke up to the door and open it.

The shrieks of delight were immediate, as was the stampede. Almost as quickly Vader forgot his concern for Luke in the onslaught of Sara and Sandra's pure exhilaration at seeing their father again. He knelt to touch them, wondering at how much they had grown already. They were nearly three now!

"Dadda's home, Dadda's home!" they squealed, dancing all around him and bounding into hugs that now could reach above the tops of his boots.

"Yes," he told them. "And there is someone for you to meet." He gently directed their attention to the right of the door, where Luke had retreated to watch the proceedings from a safe distance.

Both Sara and Sandra went still as they noticed at the newcomer—the first stranger they had seen in their nearly three years of life. The twins scooted closer against him, retreating to peer out from beneath the safety of his heavy black cape, inquisitive and slightly frightened blue eyes fixed on Luke in something like awe.

"Dadda, who's that?" the somewhat bolder Sara finally found the nerve to ask.

"This is Luke," Vader answered, motioning for his son to come down towards the twins' level. Luke dropped slowly into a crouch, his eyes never leaving his little sisters. "Sara, Sandra, Luke is your older brother."

Luke trembled visibly at the reminder, but the twins' reaction was far less burdened by the emotional stress that troubled their sibling. "You didn't say we had a big brother," Sara observed a bit cheekily, looking up at him with more than a hint of disapproval.

"I lost him a very long time ago," Vader told them, opting for the simplest form of the story. "It took me many years to find him again. I didn't think that I ever would find him again, and that was why I didn't tell you about him."

The twins switched their gazes back to Luke in unison, still showing signs of uncertainty although they seemed to accept his much-abbreviated story. There were several seconds of uneasy silence as the three children studied each other. Vader could not suppress a hope that his son would make a move towards his sisters—that he would give some sign of willingness or acceptance. But Luke stayed squarely where he was, his back to the wall, his whole posture reminding Vader of some trapped animal.

Perhaps he _felt _trapped. A touch of reassurance might be wise. Vader let go of Sara and gestured to Luke. "Come closer, Luke," he told the boy.

He was pleased to see his son obey, if hesitantly. Luke slowly edged up within his reach, and Vader immediately placed a hand on the boy's shoulder in the manner that he had discovered would usually quiet the child's distress. Sure enough, Luke's Force presence quickly acquired a more serene feel.

However, he was still unsettled enough that Sara began tugging on his cape insistently. "He doesn't like us, Dadda," she whispered in concern—not softly enough that her brother didn't hear her. Luke's emotions whirled strangely as Vader answered her.

"He is only nervous," he responded. "He has never had sisters before."

Luke opened his mouth as if to speak, but didn't. He looked helplessly up at his father instead.

"Luke, this is Sara," Vader announced briskly, trying to banish the discomfort of the situation. He patted the corresponding twin. "Sara, say hello."

Sara, ever the more assertive of the pair, waited for several impertinent seconds before finally complying. It did not help matters that he had to prod Luke into returning the courtesy after a second lengthy pause.

When he'd finally gotten the first exchange out of the way… "And this is Sandra," he said, caressing his more fragile daughter.

"Hello," Sandra said, without having to be told. Luke seemed to open up a bit more at his youngest sister's demonstration of goodwill.

"Hi, Sandra," he said, without prompting, his voice a little stronger than it had been.

"How old is he?" Sara suddenly spoke up again, looking up at his mask.

"You should ask him."

Sara was not, apparently, so interested in the answer as to be willing to directly address her brother. She scowled and ducked further back beneath her father's cape. He could tell already that she was rather upset at the thought of having to share him with a stranger.

"How old are you?" Sandra piped up, much less shy than he'd expected her to be.

"Thirteen," Luke answered. Two pairs of blue eyes widened in awe at this information.

"Dadda, that's a lot," Sara whispered to him.

"That's almost grown up," Sandra added her whisper.

"He's _lots_ bigger than us!"

"Yes, he is quite a bit older than you are," Vader nodded to them. "I will come back and stay with you later, but right now I have work to do. Luke will stay here and keep you company until I come back."

Dread immediately filled all three of his children's gazes; son and daughters alike focused pleading blue eyes on him. But he had determined not to be dissuaded. The plan of leaving the children to their own devices for a short time had come to him during the journey here, and he had had time to consider it at length and determine it was the best way to set them at ease with each other. Ignoring their dislike of the idea, he stood and left, locking the playroom door behind him.

…

The door shut firmly behind his father's sweeping black cape. Luke stared hopelessly at its blank face for several long seconds before finally looking back at Sara and Sandra. Sara was still glaring at him; Sandra was watching the door forlornly, looking as if she intended to keep her vigil until their father made good on his promise to return. Luke decided to just ignore the problem and check out the room instead.

Ignoring the problem was a little harder than he'd thought, mostly because Sara was following him around the room and scolding whenever he touched something. He finally gave up, finding nothing to interest a teenager in a room prepared for toddlers. Irritated, he marched across the playroom and flopped himself down in the big armchair in one corner.

Sara instantly tore over, not happy at all. "You can't sit there," she lectured him. "That's Dadda's chair."

Luke gave her a scowl of his own. Oh, he _definitely_ was not going to like having little sisters. "He's not here," he pointed out. _Must…be…patient…_

"But it's _Dadda_'s chair," Sara insisted. "Nobody else can sit in it."

Sandra appeared hesitantly alongside Sara, nodding agreement.

Luke glared at both of them. "Is there anything I _can _touch in this room?" he snapped, making no move to exit the chair.

Sandra burst into tears.

Luke felt a heavy burden of guilt land on him immediately. He was thirteen, for crying out loud—even if he didn't really want to have little sisters, he was stuck with them, and just because he didn't like them didn't mean he had to make them cry. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry," he said, rolling out of the chair. "Look—do you—um—" He cast a frantic gaze around the room… "Do you want to build something?" he finally said, his eyes landing on the box of snap blocks. "We could build a ship or something."

Sandra sniffled a little. "Okay," Sara said warily. "Only if you be nice."

"Well, you gotta be nice too," he grumbled, prying the box out of its stack. He twisted the lid off and shook the blocks out into a great disorganized mess on the carpeted floor. The three mismatched children gathered around the pile, intent on transforming the disaster into a triumph.

_In a rather sleazy cantina, on the infamous moon of Nar Shaddaa…_

"Back again, Solo?" wheezed the overweight green Twi'lek who ran the bar of the Rancor's Den. He chuckled thickly. "The usual, I suppose?"

"Nah. Make it a Remote Terminator this time," Han said glumly, sitting himself down at the bar. "Randomized."

The Twi'lek froze mid-drink-mixing, eyeing Han askance. "What, did Corellia blow up or something?"

Han scowled. "Hey, I pay, you serve." He slapped a few credits down on the counter.

The Twi'lek shrugged and finished his order. "Your brain cells, Solo."

Han threw back a deep, burning swallow of his drink as soon as he had it in hand. _Kreth! _Maybe the Twi'lek had been right about that brain cell thing. He had a feeling this stuff might be vaporizing a few of them right now. _Kreth_, but this drink really was as strong as all the spacers and smugglers had said…

Eh, that was okay. He needed to get his mind off of things just now—and if the only way he could manage that was by destroying brain cells, oh well. Still, he had to blink back tears at the sharp burn of concentrated whiskeys. The Twi'lek grinned in vindication, but Han got rid of him with another nasty scowl.

Four and a half months. He'd been tryin' to find the _Executor_ for four and a half months now. Han could no longer remember all the information brokers he'd gone to, hunting for some clue as to Fifth Fleet's whereabouts. The only time that he'd gotten an actual location, he'd been too late, arriving a day after the destroyers had hypered out of system. Four and a half months. And every day he spent was another day that Luke was trapped with that conniving, lying, trap-laying Sith lord.

He hadn't thought it would be so hard to find the _Executor_, but apparently Fleet whereabouts was classified information. And Han didn't know anybody who could get their hands inside the restricted information vaults on Coruscant or tap into NavNet. As a matter of fact, he didn't think anybody could get into NavNet—somebody had told him it worked on co-operational wavelengths, whatever the freakin' heck _that_ was supposed to mean—

"Hey, Han!" a cheerful voice rose out of the crowd behind him. Han turned slowly around on his seat…to see none other than Lando Calrissian, coming towards the bar out of the scattered array of tables. A feral grin rose on his face. Finally! He hadn't seen Calrissian since before going to Coruscant with Luke…this guy had had payback coming for a _long_ time. Might not help him find Luke, but it'd sure as _heck_ make him feel better, better than this blasted drink was…

"You got some kinda nerve, Calrissian," he said with that predator's grin.

Calrissian paused, his smile slowly fading. "Something wrong?" he asked rather weakly.

"You can stang well bet it is," Han agreed, angry enough to drink a swig from his drink without really noticing it.

Calrissian glanced around. "Hey, where's Luke?"

"That'd be what's wrong," Han growled, totally losing his façade of cheer. His mind suddenly went haywire, and without thinking about it at all he swung out and cracked Calrissian with the hardest roundhouse punch he could manage.

Calrissian stumbled back, staggered, clutched at his nose, groaning. "Kreth it, what was that for?" he demanded.

"Luke!" Han hurled what was left of his drink—quite a bit—into Calrissian's gaping mouth, and while the guy was still sputtering attacked without reserve, shouting incoherent accusations and Huttese invective at the top of his lungs, swinging wildly at the guy—

—and suddenly everything went to dark nothing.


	21. Childcare

Author's Note: I apologize for my long delay. It's taken me awhile both to find writing time and to decide what I want to write. But this update is a nice long one, so you shouldn't be too upset with me…I hope…Thanks very much to all of my reviewers. I greatly appreciate your encouragement. On the subject of reviews, I have adjusted my settings to allow anonymous reviews. I apologize to anyone who tried to review and wasn't able to previously. So…now that we have the business out of the way, settle back and hopefully enjoy the read!

_Meanwhile, at the royal palace in Aldera…_

"Governor, it's been a great honor to have you on Alderaan," Bail Organa said with his very best fake smile.

Tarkin, predictably, gave him a thin and very un-amused smile in return. "An enjoyable and relaxing visit," he commented, with more than a touch of sarcasm.

Beside her father, Leia smiled sweetly. "Please, visit us again," she cooed, with all the charm she could muster—no small amount, that.

Tarkin turned his sour smile icily on the princess. "Such a charming child," he told Bail.

Leia smiled even more broadly and sweetly under his hard, furious stare. "Anything for a guest," she answered brightly, ignoring her father's reprimanding pinch.

"You are a most excellent host, Senator," Tarkin ground out by way of response. "My thanks."

"Have a safe journey," her father said, trying to salvage the situation.

"I hope you suffer no more inconveniences," Leia added.

She got another pinch from her father and a subtle glare from the governor for _that_ particular comment.

"Thank you, Senator," the governor all but hissed. Her father's relief was palpable as Tarkin turned to board his ship. The ramp sealed behind the Imperials, and no sooner had the repulsors kicked in than her father leveled a stern glare at her.

She met it with wide-eyed innocence. "My, he certainly was here a long time, wasn't he?"

_Back on Vjun…_

His father never did return to the playroom, at least not while Luke was there. Instead, Miyr had arrived while he was helping his little sisters put the finishing touches on what had turned into a pretty impressive large-scale model of a Star Destroyer, nearly an hour and a half later. He guessed that the lady must be in charge of taking care of him and his sisters now; she took them into a different room, where food was waiting for them, and then she'd sent Sara and Sandra off for a nap with a nanny droid while she gave Luke a tour of his new home.

"Your father was detained by business," had been her only answer to his questions.

Right now, he was in a fairly small chamber, where Miyr had said he would be sleeping until his father made arrangements. There was a bed, but it was stiff; there was a computer, a chair, and a closet; and that was pretty much it. The only familiar things in the room were…

"Master Luke, might I ask where we are?" Threepio's prissy voice spoke from the opposite end of the bed.

"I think this is called Bast Castle," Luke answered, absently running his hand over Artoo's smooth dome as he sat on the head of his bed, staring and thinking. "It's Father's home."

"I see, Master Luke." Threepio's circuits were much less frenetic when it came to the topic of his father, nowadays—though admittedly that had much to do with a few subtle alterations his father had undertaken to make to the droid's subroutines. "Is your father here as well?"

"Yeah, he's here somewhere. He's working."

"He certainly is a busy man."

Luke nodded as a fresh twinge of loneliness stung his spirit. Artoo and Threepio were pretty good company most of the time, as he'd discovered over the past several months aboard the _Executor_, but they were still just droids. And now his father would be leaving him here, with only two much younger sisters and one much older woman to keep him company.

The door hissed suddenly open, and Luke didn't have to look up to know his father had come. But he did anyway.

"I see Miyr has shown you to your room," Vader rumbled, surveying the little chamber. "This will only be temporary. I will soon arrange more suitable accommodations for you."

Luke nodded, trying gamely to find some scrap of enthusiasm for show, but there was simply nothing. He felt so emotionally drained that any kind of effort was beyond him—a fact which did not long escape his father's notice.

"You are unhappy," Darth Vader announced. If there was anything that everybody in the galaxy could agree on about his person, it was probably that he was the bluntest person in it…

Luke only sighed, missing Obi-Wan not for the first time. Before living with his father, he hadn't realized just how careful and skilled his Jedi Master had been when it came to dealing with complex emotions.

Vader caught _that_ thought as well. His anger and displeasure were instantly ignited—Obi-Wan Kenobi's merit or lack of it was the biggest point of contention between him and his son. Any other time he would have immediately corrected the boy for missing the traitorous, kidnapping, treacherous old man—but this was not any other time. Luke was showing clear signs of stress already, and the last thing he needed was for an argument to arise. He would ignore the matter of Kenobi for now, difficult as it was to contain his anger. "I noticed that you and your sisters were busy in my absence," he said aloud.

Luke nodded, but offered nothing to the conversation. Frustration pounded through the dark lord. Chaos take it, every time he got into these difficult, disconcerting situations with his son, his awkwardness was only amplified by the realization that Padmé would certainly have known what to do. She would have had no trouble drawing Luke out of this shell he had wrapped himself in.

Strange, it was, that though he thought of Padmé and missed her more than ever before since his son's arrival, the pain remained so much less than it had been during the years when he had worked so hard to repress her memory…

"It seems you did not have much trouble adjusting to their presence," Vader finally continued when Luke let the silence hang.

His son shook his head dutifully—and silently.

"It is impolite not to respond when you are spoken to, son," Vader finally snapped in exasperation.

Luke's eyes shot up, somewhat hurt. "Sorry," he mumbled. Token obedience. Vader refused to allow himself a sigh. He'd do better to ask direct questions than to scold the boy if he wanted genuine response.

"Did your sisters help you build that Star Destroyer?" he asked.

"Yeah."

Vader tightened his grip on his belt, but he wasn't going to give up yet. He did not have much longer to spend with his son—only a week—and it would be prudent to make the most of that time that he could. "How long did it take you to build?"

"About an hour and a half." Luke shifted on the edge of his bed, kicking his feet and staring at the floor.

Vader could not decide whether Luke wanted to be left alone or wanted his father's presence. He was picking up distinct emotions of loneliness from the boy—which made no sense whatsoever. Luke was anything but alone—he had his two droids and his father with him right now, and only a short while before had been with Miyr and the twins. Surely the boy had no reason to perceive himself as lonely?

Although he did not understand the causes, Vader still moved over and tried to soothe the boy with a hand on the shoulder. "Would you like to come practice in the salle with me?" he offered. Lightsaber practice was the one thing he could count upon to buoy Luke's spirits—his son _never_ turned down the chance to spar—

"I suppose," Luke said softly.

Which, of course, meant that he would _not_ like to practice. Vader could hardly believe that the downcast, morose child before him was the same Luke who had been living in his quarters and pestering him to practice with the lightsabers for five months. Something serious must be upsetting the boy.

"What is troubling you, my son?" Vader said pointedly. He waved the droids out of the room and sat down next to Luke.

"I—nothing."

"It is certainly not _nothing_, Luke," Vader countered, irritation rearing its head. "Tell me."

Luke didn't answer. Vader was struck by the thought that perhaps the child didn't quite know himself what his emotions were. Well. In that case, he might not be such an inept parent after all…

"I don't like it here," Luke suddenly burst out. "I don't want to stay here."

Vader wasn't all that surprised. He had been expecting some discontent, given Luke's behavior. "You are still stressed, son," he said placatingly. "You will find it less objectionable when you have rested and are calm. You will have much more freedom here, and there are other children—"

"They're only two," Luke muttered. "And they're _girls_."

"Like or not, son, you will have to learn to tolerate females. You should be grateful to _have_ a family at all."

Luke's fledgling willingness to speak up suddenly died in its nest. He nodded submissively, feeling very small beside his father's great bulk. His father was right. It hadn't been so long ago that he hadn't had anybody but Han—not that Han wasn't great and Luke didn't miss him bad, but Han wasn't his _family_. His father was, even though nobody in their right mind (probably nobody in their _wrong_ mind, either) would call him a perfect parent.

Even as his thoughts stilled again, he could feel his father's strong, soothing dark touch upon his mind, and Luke snatched quickly at the comfort of something familiar. His father let him take hold, lean up against the black armor. The minutes of quiet stretched easily by until Luke began to blink tiredly and yawned. The last thing he felt through the sleepy haze was his father tugging off his boots and laying him out on the bed.

_On the most notorious moon in the galaxy…_

Han blinked, groaned, and shook his head groggily—

Major, major mistake. Stars exploded merrily around his eyes, pinpricks of light stabbing through his already-shaky vision—and oh, the pain…he felt like a band of deranged surgical droids had forgotten to give him an anesthetic before slicing through his skull with their scalpels. Moaning miserably, he lay as still as he could contrive, not daring to twitch a muscle or open his eyes again. Man, somebody must have knocked him upside the head and but _good_.

It was either that or the drink.

Whatever had done it, the headache was far too painful for him to think anything else for quite some time. When he _could_ get another coherent thought through his brain, it was: _Where the holy freakin' kreth am I?_

Unfortunately, the answer to this question was neither inherent in his brain nor hanging directly above his head—

He howled as a sudden roaring filled the whole room, feeling extremely sure that someone had just driven a lightsaber in one of his ears and out through the other. It was only slowly that the thundering ruckus resolved itself into distinct, pounding words.

"Han? Sheesh, Solo, chill!"

The sharp pain in his head abated, leaving behind a grinding, dull throb. He groaned and clutched at his temples. "Kreth it, get _lost_, why dontcha…"

"Listen, does your head hurt?" the voice asked. Han only moaned by way of answer.

"I guess that's a yes," mused the voice. There was some bustling about and Han winced as each sound struck his tender ears. Someone might as well have been slugging him on the side of his head with a durasteel hydrospanner for all he could tell the difference.

He winced again and his vision whirled crazily as somebody or other hauled him into sitting position. "Here, drink up," said the voice from the direction of a darkish blur. Actually, squinting, Han thought there might be several of the darkish blurs, but they were all sorta weaving together—he glanced dizzily down as the blur gave him a cup of water and dropped some pills in.

"Painkillers," the voice explained. Han needed no further prompting. He downed the pills ravenously. Within ten minutes, he could feel the headache clearing—and as it did, the darkish blur resolved itself into the infuriatingly cheerful face of none other than Lando Calrissian. Han promptly snarled.

"Whaddaya want, Calrissian?"

"This is what I get for being nice to a Corellian," Calrissian grumbled. "You sure are one cheery kind of guy, Solo."

"Shut up and tell me where the Sith you dragged me off to."

"Your ship, you idiot," Calrissian fired back.

Han glanced quickly around and discovered that he was indeed in the bunkroom of the _Millennium Falcon_, laid out on the bottom bunk that faced the door. He could tell by the scorch marks and laser pitting around the entryway and a long seared gash down one of the walls…

He bolted suddenly out of the bunk, feeling sick. That was Luke's bunk Lando had put him in. Luke's.

"Hey, wouldja stop jumpin' around?" Calrissian demanded in exasperation. "For all I know that Aqualish gave you a concussion."

Han hardly heard him. "Aqualish?" he mumbled dimly.

"Yeah, he cracked your head with a chair," Lando informed him. "Is it gonna hurt you to hold still until I can get your head scanned?"

Han groped at the wall for the chair he knew was there and sat down when he found it—not because Calrissian said so, but because the painkillers hadn't kicked in full force yet and his vision was spinning and his head was splitting all over again. Dimly he heard a soft sort of humming around his head for a few seconds.

"Well, at least you don't have a concussion," Calrissian concluded. "Now would you mind telling me what your problem is?"

"Luke," Han snarled, his fury igniting all over again.

"What about Luke?"

And Han was off…

…

"So let me get this straight," Lando said something like forty-five minutes later. "Basically, this short friend of yours turns out to be a miniature Jedi. Vader finds out, you two hightail it to the Rebellion, the Empire orchestrates an ambush, Vader catches the kid, and you've been looking for him ever since."

Han nodded, his previous rage exhausted by reliving the story.

"And how the _heck_ is this my fault?" Lando demanded in bewilderment.

"That ID forger contact of yours on Coruscant got us caught and both of us wound up running into Vader," Han said wearily. Come to think of it, maybe it really _wasn't_ Calrissian's fault. But he had to be mad at somebody—it wasn't his fault, it wasn't Luke's fault, and it was downright stupid to be mad at Vader, so that left Lando.

Lando laughed bitterly in disbelief and muttered under his breath. "Look, would it make you feel better if I told you I had a pretty good idea of where you might find your friend?" he said finally.

Han forgot his anger in a flash. "You know where Luke is?"

"Well, no…"

Han swore under his breath.

"…But I do know where Vader is."

Han perked back up immediately. "You know where the _Executor_ is?"

"Lemme finish, will you? A few months back, I ran into a guy whose name you probably want to remember. You ever hear of Talon Karrde?"

Han shook his head.

"Yeah, I didn't think so, or you wouldn't still be looking for the _Executor_. Basically, Karrde is the guy you ask if you want to know where someone is. I'm telling you, this guy has the Imperial Intelligence Bureau beat. Anyway, as it happens, they do a lot of business in Fifth Fleet's operational sector, which is where I've been setting up a few little smuggling operations of my own for the last few months. And it's worth a lot of money to know when you can expect the Fleet to be moving a little lax, right?"

"Right," Han said impatiently.

"In Fifth Fleet, that means knowing when the top nexu is out of the picture," Lando continued. "And Vader is top nexu in Fifth Fleet."

"So you pay Karrde to give you a heads-up when he's movin'," Han finished, the pieces slowly pushing their way together through the dregs of his headache-cum-hangover.

"Exactly. And according to my latest information, he's _not_ on the _Executor_. He's probably at his private retreat on the planet Vjun. Now you say Luke's a Jedi or a Jedi wannabe or something, so all bets are that Vader will want to keep a good eye on him. Ergo—"

"Luke's on Vjun," Han concluded jubilantly. He leapt off the chair and tore out of the bunkroom on his way to the cockpit. "If you want off this crate, you better beat it, cause my next stop is Vjun," he called over his shoulder.

"Hey, hey!" Calrissian dashed into the cockpit. "Solo, you can't just sail right up to Darth Vader's house and knock on the door!"

"Who said anything about knocking?" Han retorted grimly. With a shudder the _Millennium Falcon_'s engines began to sing, and slowly Han began lifting the craft up on its repulsors.

"Hey, put this crate back down!" Lando shouted. "If you're hell-bent on suicide, have a blast, but _I _sure don't plan on signing up!"

"Ramp's still open," Han told him. "You have five seconds." Lando threw his hands up in the air and ran out of the cockpit, through the corridors, and onto the landing ramp, where he was faced with the choice of either a life-threatening five-meter jump back to land or a life-threatening visit to Darth Vader's mansion.

He threw himself off the ramp with a promise that if both of them survived their respective destinations sufficiently intact, he was going to kill Solo the next time he saw him.

_On the hostile world of Vjun…_

Darth Vader was not anticipating his impending departure. For one, he had not been able to spend nearly as much time with his children as he would have liked. Between his vast workload and the added concern of preparing for Luke's prolonged residence there, he scarcely had time to sleep, What little time he _was_ able to devote to his children was no less stressed than his working hours, for although affairs had certainly improved since the first day Luke, Sara, and Sandra were far from comfortable with each other. Luke in particular was in a perpetual state of unease. Vader was aware of it every second.

He could only surmise that the boy was having difficulty adapting to his new environment. This was not surprising, but it frustrated Vader to no end. He did not like leaving his son in a place where the boy was clearly uncomfortable. He did not like leaving the boy at all, to be perfectly honest. For one, he could not shake the lingering fear that Luke might decide to run away. For another, he had begun to truly gain the child's trust, a process he was loathe to halt.

Yet it wasn't as if he had any options. Luke could not safely remain aboard the _Executor_, for sooner or later the _Executor_ would have to return to Coruscant. That would bring Luke within range of the Emperor. Such proximity between master and son must be avoided at all costs.

Frustration welled in him anew, and he threw the stylus violently to his desk. He could not work while he was thus concerned. Yet again he cursed his utter inability to meditate and calm his mind.

"You never were very good at that, Padawan," an impossibly familiar voice observed.

Vader leapt up from his seat, snatching his lightsaber from his belt and igniting it, scanning the room for the threat—and there, approaching from one of the side of the room, he saw something it was completely impossible that he should see.

Unless his optical receptors deceived him—which, of course, they were—that transparent blue-tinged shape ambling towards him looked quite remarkably like Obi-Wan Kenobi. Snarling behind the mask, he deactivated the lightsaber. He would have to summon his private technician right away to repair whatever circuits had become damaged in the mask. He had problems enough to worry him without throwing random hallucinations into the mix.

"I'm afraid the technician won't be able to help," the apparition informed him sadly. "You can't get rid of a problem that doesn't exist. Surely you see the logic of that argument, Anakin."

Vader stared resolutely at the apparition, determined to dismiss it by sheer willpower. For a solid two minutes the apparition gazed silently back without so much as a flicker.

Then Vader recoiled sharply at a _very_ familiar and very real touch upon his mind. "Kenobi," he snarled venomously. How such a thing was possible, or why it should happen, or what precisely was happening, the Sith lord had not even a shadow of an idea—but by some unwanted miracle, the figure before him truly was his old master, speaking from beyond.

"Anakin," his old master answered sadly.

Angrily Vader lashed out—maybe he couldn't kill Obi-Wan a second time, but perhaps he could at least exact revenge for the damage the Jedi had done to his mind nearly a year ago—

But somehow, he was unable to touch Kenobi. He could sense the man's presence now, though death had changed it significantly, yet he couldn't make contact. "That name," he bit out through his black rage, "no longer has any meaning—"

"If it meant nothing to you, Luke would mean nothing to you," Obi-Wan countered sharply before he could finish.

Unfortunately, the dark lord could not find a suitable answer for that claim.

"Incidentally, Luke is my reason for coming here." Obi-Wan crossed his arms and regarded Vader as the latter's rage surged to newfound heights.

"Then your coming is pointless," Vader retorted. "I refuse to discuss my son with you."

Obi-Wan sighed. "Please, Anakin, listen to me," he pleaded. "For Luke's sake. Just this one time, can we not put Luke before either of our personal concerns?"

His words struck an unwilling chord in Vader. Forcibly the dark lord lowered his hands and hauled back on the leash of his anger. "You have five minutes," he said tightly.

Obi-Wan wasted not a second. "Anakin, you cannot leave Luke like this."

"Define 'this'."

"Here at the castle with Miyr and your daughters," Obi-Wan continued. "Who, by the way, are delightful girls, but that is beside the point. Your son will be left adrift. He has already been repeatedly moved from caretaker to caretaker. The last thing he needs is for it to happen again."

Vader's rage surged once more. "_I _am not the one responsible for those repeated movements," he snarled.

"We aren't debating responsibility," Obi-Wan returned coolly. "We are discussing the best solution for the situation that exists. If you wish to argue over responsibility, I'll be happy to come back another time. The fact remains that Luke does not need this to happen again."

"And how do you suggest that I am to rectify that?" Vader snapped. "I am more concerned with his safety than with his emotional state."

"But both are important," Obi-Wan countered swiftly. "I'm quite sure that between the two of us we can find an answer that will better address both of these things. Surely we can agree that Luke requires some degree of stability."

Reluctantly, Vader nodded. He forced himself to remember that Obi-Wan had raised his son for at least two years. It had to be granted that the Jedi had more experience in the area than he did. "Stability is necessary."

"And I'm sure you'll also agree that you are not in a position to provide that stability," Obi-Wan continued.

Vader bristled at that, but once the arguments were lined out, he was compelled to agree. Luke could not stay with him on the destroyer; he could not stay with Luke on Vjun. Obviously, he would not be able to be with the child consistently.

"And what individual do you have in mind to provide this stability?" Vader demanded. If not him, and if not someone new, it would have to be someone Luke had previously known. "Yourself?"

Obi-Wan laughed bitterly. "No. I very much doubt you'll agree to that."

"Correct," Vader said in decidedly clipped tones.

"No, I have another person in mind," Obi-Wan continued.

As he spoke, sirens abruptly began to howl throughout the castle, alarm lights flashed frenetically, and Vader's com began to chime insistently at his belt and on his desk computer.

"In fact," Obi-Wan mused, "I believe that person has just arrived."


	22. Sleight of Hand

Author's Note: Well, aren't you proud of me! Look how fast I got this update up! Hopefully you will continue to enjoy. This chapter's got a bit more excitement in it…

_Just a few minutes earlier_…

"Captain, we have an incoming ship from fourth sector," the brisk voice of Specialist Ayler suddenly rose above the low, steady hum that was characteristic of Bast Castle's control room.

Captain Landre quickly left his console and stepped over to the sensor displays, a frown on his face prominently. He had not been notified to expect any arrivals today; this was the first time in his three years here that Miyr had failed to warn him in advance.

It was a most suspicious lapse, to the captain's shrewd mind. Still…there was no sign of a threat. "Issue a challenge," he said, deciding to follow the same procedure as usual. But just to be on the safe side, he called out an order for the junior communications officer to place the external defense systems and starfighter squadron on alert.

A few tense moments passed. Finally his senior com officer looked up from his console and headset. "Sir, the ship is broadcasting a communications system failure," he said. "However, I've verified her drive signature and transponder code."

Landre's eyes narrowed. A communications failure? That sounded far too convenient to him. But…they could not ignore the military drive and code… "Tractor the ship into Hangar Four," Landre decided. "I want three squads down there on alert to meet it. Make sure all possible exits are sealed, and place the castle on full alert." In the event that something really was afoot, he did not want any chance of that something getting in the main structure of the castle.

"Yes, sir," the com officer reported snappily.

Landre drew in a nervous breath. "I will inform Lord Vader," he added, more to himself than to anyone else in the control room.

…

Han breathed very, very carefully as he heard the footsteps ring out above his head on the deck plating, and thanked Luke's crazy Force that he'd gotten these smuggler compartments installed. And that he'd gotten the all-important Sienar hyperdrive from Calrissian all those months ago. It was a harebrained plot that he'd come up with, but so far it seemed to be working. They had let him inside Bast Castle.

Now he just had to get himself off the ship without being seen. If these guys were any kind of smart, they'd have whole platoons of stormtroopers milling around outside the ship to make sure he didn't slip out.

Han grinned ferally. Actually, those platoons outside might just work to his advantage…

He waited until the footsteps faded away down the corridor. Having found nothing aboard, the stormtroopers were leaving. They'd probably send in a scanning crew behind them…reaching carefully overhead, Han shifted the deckplate out of way and clambered up out of the smuggling hold, whipping his blaster out of his holster.

Sure enough, the scanning crew were not far behind the stormtroopers. Han ducked behind a corner and watched as they hefted their crate of equipment up the ramp and down the corridor. Then he quickly switched on his blaster's silencer and fired off two bolts from his vantage position behind the fuselage in the corridor. He felt the adrenaline pump through his veins as the techs fell, dropping their crate. For a moment the Corellian debated stealing one of _their_ uniforms, and quickly decided against it as the uniforms now sported conspicuous scorched holes in the chest. Instead he called out, "Hey, down there! Could you give us a hand?"

Quickly he ducked back behind his corner, praying they wouldn't send up a whole battalion or something. But only one armored stormtrooper appeared. He started upon seeing the collapsed techs, and went for his blaster—

He was too late. Han pumped a quick stun round into him too and the Imperial was down. Han holstered his blaster and dashed forward, dragging the guy into the bunkroom. He stripped the stormtrooper's armor off and got it on himself in record time, grunting just a little at the unexpected weight of the white getup. Trading his own blaster for the stormtrooper's, he stuck his helmet on, steeled his resolve and nerves, and marched smartly back down the ramp of his ship.

Outside the large hangar was, indeed, crawling with Imperials. Han almost froze halfway down the ramp out of sheer disbelief at his own audacity in walking straight into them—but fortunately he only _thought_ about it, and didn't actually do it. He kept briskly moving, and found himself weaving through the commotion. His heart pounded frantically, and any moment he expected a squadron leader to call him out and order him into formation, or for the blasters to start firing. But by some miracle, he made it all the way to the blast doors on the far side. He breathed a sigh of relief as his hand reached for the controls—then the doors swished open of their own accord—

—And _Darth Vader_ was standing on the other side.

_Oh, freaking _crap_! Think, Sol—_

_Salute, Han_, a strange voice suggested in his head. Han was so terrified that he obeyed without thinking. His hand flashed up in a standard Academy salute and his feet stepped aside of their own accord.

Vader gave a short, sharp nod and strode briskly through the doorway, heading for a uniformed officer of some kind waiting not far from Han's ship.

Han's knees would have buckled in relief if not for the supporting armor. He took a deep, steadying breath, and marched through the door into Bast Castle. _Hold on, kid. I'm coming!_

…

Miyr bolted out of her chambers as the alarms sang overhead and out in the corridor, hissing curses beneath her breath. She didn't know what was happening yet, but getting information was second priority. First priority was ensuring the safety of Lord Vader's children. Miyr speed-walked down the hall. Sara and Sandra were already awake when she reached their room, sobbing and huddled against each other as the alarms shrieked above. She swept them up into her arms, and wasted no time hurrying them to the emergency turbolift in their rooms which would take them to the safe room down beneath the castle basements, reassuring them as the lift plunged downward.

She would have to leave them sealed away down there, because Luke was still upstairs—his room was in Lord Vader's private chambers, however, and Miyr would have to retrieve the emergency override password before she could get inside to the boy. The password was the protected security console, downstairs in the control room. She cursed the circumstances, but there was no remedy save all the speed she could muster.

Sara and Sandra burst into pleading sobs when she locked them inside the safe room. Miyr had to ignore their fearful cries as she went back up in the turbolift. The girls were safe now, as safe as the galaxy's most advanced technological knowledge could make them. There was still one child who was not.

Miyr exited the turbolift where she had boarded it a minute ago with the twins—the shaft only allowed for those two boarding points. It was a further inconvenience. She'd have to leave the compound-like security of the top floor before she could take another lift down to the control room. Swiftly she pointed her feet for the security checkpoint.

…

There were general information computers placed at useful intervals through all the corridors of the castle, and Han didn't waste time taking advantage of them. Scanning a notated holographic map of the castle, he quickly located Vader's personal quarters on the restricted top floor of the castle. Like Calrissian had reasoned, Vader would want to keep a close eye on the kid's Jedi powers, and according to that recording he'd seen Luke sure hadn't been in the detention block. And besides, Han knew that Vader had tricked Luke into believing that the Sith lord was his father—so any way you looked at it, Luke was most likely to be up on that top floor.

Han took a look at the directions on the map, and found that luckily enough he wasn't far from the turbolift that would take him up to that top floor. He spent the ride up wondering how the Sith he was going to get past the security that was for sure waiting at the top. Maybe he could pretend that he was taking over a duty shift or something…

Then the turbolift doors hissed open. He stepped out and found himself facing three very heavily armed security guards…and his brain immediately opted for surprise. He switched his blaster to full power as he brought it up and fired like there was no tomorrow.

When the smoke finally rose, Han was unharmed, but all the security guards were sprawled out on the floor, armor scorched away by superheated beams of light at several critical points. They were definitely dead. Han fired another bolt through each one's eyeplates just to be extra sure before he moved past the sparking remains of the biometric scanning array. New alarms began to howl as Han came up to the door.

Which was where he got stuck. There were no controls to open the door—only an ID verification scanner. Presumably, the door would only open for a few pre-approved people. Well…maybe some firepower would do the trick too. Han tried firing a bolt at the door.

He narrowly avoided being blasted by it. The laser bolt rebounded and whisked past his helmet, missing by only a few centimeters. Han shook his boots for several seconds. It figured that he'd be so worried about getting shot by a stormtrooper and then wind up shooting _himself_!

The door was magnetically sealed. He wasn't going to be blasting his way through it anytime soon, and of course the door wouldn't recognize him.

Maybe it would recognize one of the dead security guards—

Out of the blue, it hissed open, as if all he'd had to do was think about it long enough.

Han watched, unable to believe his good luck, as a woman in a dark blue dress started to step through, nodding at him curtly. Then she saw the sprawled guards and the smoking wreckage.

Desperately Han clubbed her over the head with his gun. He didn't get it right on the first hit—she staggered forward, dazed—but it earned him enough time to switch the blaster's setting and stun her. Didn't want to kill a lady, whoever she was and whatever she was doing here. He wasted no more time squeezing through the security door before it could shut.

Inside, the hall was quiet and serene. The dark gray walls were hung with somber pieces of what Han supposed must be expensive art. The lighting was somewhat on the muted side. The floor was now patterned tiles of some kind of stone, in black and white and gray. His steps didn't ring as much on the stone. There was no one else in sight.

Han started warily down the hall, checking each door as he went and hoping he would find Luke before the cavalry arrived.

…

Vader stiffened all over as he came into the hanger, brushing past some stormtrooper who radiated so much nervousness that he must have been a very recent graduate of the Imperial Academy on Carida. The sight of the freighter stoked the fires of his rage and quickly banished all thought of the frightened trooper.

That was the same freighter he had taken Luke off of five months ago—the _Millennium Falcon_, his son had called it. He could never forget a ship with so much…character. No more than he had forgotten its owner—the brown-haired Corellian teenager, Han Solo, whom he had released that day aboard the _Executor_ for Luke's sake.

It seemed the teenager was even more brash and stupid than Vader had thought him. Clearly, the boy had come for Luke. The thought of someone trying to take his son from him again was more than enough to enrage Vader. His anger was only compounded by the fact that young Solo had somehow managed to penetrate Vader's security and track Luke to this planet.

He listened with half an ear as Captain Landre briefed him on the situation, most of his mind being devoted to scanning the Force for that blasted, impudent, insolent, foolish young man. Unfortunately, Vader was not familiar with Solo's Force presence. The best he could discern was that there were three life-forms aboard the freighter, one of which was presumably Solo.

"…We have a scanning crew aboard the ship now," Landre concluded. "Most likely the ship's crew is concealed in smuggling compartments. If so, the scans should be able to detect them."

"When you find the crew, bring them to me," Vader ordered coldly. They fell silent, waiting for the scans to be completed. Visions for punishing Solo's foolish daring danced through the dark lord's head as the minutes passed.

Ten minutes later, the scanning crew had yet to show itself or any results.

Landre frowned. "They should certainly be done by now," he murmured, mostly to himself. Vader was pleased to see the captain turn quickly to his executive officer. "Send a squad up to assist the scanning crew," Landre said shortly. He adjusted his communications headset as several stormtroopers boarded the freighter.

A mere instant later, his eyes widened. He turned grimly to Vader. "My lord, the scanning crew is dead," he said grimly.

Vader tensed.

"Send up another squad," Landre ordered into his headset. "I don't want the skulking Hutt slime to shoot any more of my men."

Silence reigned for a few more moments. Then Landre's mouth set again. He took off the headset and turned to face Vader squarely. "My lord, they've discovered one of our stormtroopers stunned aboard the ship," he said tightly. "His armor was stripped. I believe we have an intruder."

Vader snarled beneath the mask. Solo was more clever and resourceful than Vader had given him credit for. "Seal this hangar," he barked at Landre. "I do not want a single trooper to leave this room until his identity has been confirmed. Coordinate an immediate search of the castle."

"At once, my lord," Landre affirmed. Vader was not in the mood for leniency.

"If this intruder is not immediately contained," he hissed at Landre, "or if there is any damage done, rest assured that I will hold you accountable for it." With that, he stalked out of the hangar to search for Solo—personally.

That young Corellian would soon learn the consequences of attempting to take from Darth Vader what was his.


	23. His Mother's Son

Author's Note: It appears that the faster I update, the fewer reviews I get. This is not exactly the way to encourage me if you're enjoying the story…hint, hint. Seriously, I appreciate those of you who did review. It's very rewarding to get feedback on my writing, and I always enjoy it. But it would be really great to hear from more of you, because according to my stats I only got about nine reviews from roughly four hundred readers. Please, let me know what you think! Now, without further ado, the saga continues…

(do excuse the pretentiousness of the author!)

There were, in point of fact, two intruders in Vader's sanctum sanctorum at the topmost floor of the castle, though no one knew it at present. The second intruder swept stressfully past a completely oblivious Han Solo and whisked without pause directly through a wall of supposedly impenetrable durasteel.

This second intruder, of course, was none other than deceased Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi.

Had he been incorporated as a visual form at the moment, the Jedi Master would have heaved a distressed sigh. Leave it to the headstrong Corellian teenager to completely screw up the elaborate situation he had slowly been crafting, one where all the factors would cooperate to win Vader over to Obi-Wan's plan. Had Han simply had the common sense to stay aboard his ship and allow himself to be peacefully brought to Vader…

But no, the impetuous boy had concocted an impulsive, reckless plan to try to rescue Luke single-handedly from one of the galaxy's most secure locations! Obi-Wan conceded huffily that the young Corellian was certainly lacking neither ingenuity nor daring to have come so far—although it was fortunate for Han that Obi-Wan had been present to save him from Vader's scrutiny at the hangar blast door—but the farther he penetrated castle security the more enraged Darth Vader would become. The Sith lord was easily furious enough to murder Han the second he was within saber reach—unless his former apprentice had learned a modicum of patience, in which case he would no doubt take the more sadistic route and send Han down to some hideous fate in the detention block.

Obi-Wan could think of only one person who could save Han now. Therefore he quite literally spirited himself through the chambers and corridors of the floor until he reached a fairly small room in the back of Vader's private apartments.

…

The unholy howls of the alarms had ripped Luke out of his slumber within seconds. For a moment he'd thought he was back at the castle on Coruscant, fleeing with Wedge and Han…

Flashes of fear whipped up his adrenaline, waking him all the way. He pushed back the memory and the blanket covering him, standing quickly out of bed. Miyr had told him that if the alarms activated, he should go to the emergency turbolift. That was in Sara and Sandra's nursery, he remembered from the tour she had given him. It would take him down to the safe room, she'd said. Luke quickly pulled on his boots and switched on Artoo and Threepio.

"Come on, we gotta go," he told them as their lights awoke.

"Oh, my!" gasped Threepio upon registering the alarms. "We've been attacked!"

Artoo twittered derisively at his counterpart as he tilted onto three wheels for maximum mobility.

"I don't know what's happening," Luke told the droids, "but we're going to the safe room, so we'll be fine."

"Oh, we'd better not waste a single moment!" wailed Threepio, and the droid actually clattered out the door ahead of both of them. Luke started to follow Artoo out of his room, but stopped, thinking that he might be able to get some clue as to the reason for the alarms from his desk computer. He tried for a few minutes, but could unearth nothing more than system emergency override: proceed to nearest secure location please.

He gave it up and walked quickly out of his room, weaving his way through his father's private apartments and following the sound of the droids' banter, hoping he really was taking the correct route. Sure enough, the door to his sisters' rooms revealed itself ahead, standing open with emergency lights flashing.

Luke was a couple meters away from it when a brand new set of alarms joined the din and the door whipped shut. As he watched the blast shields sealed over top of it firmly. He dashed forward and punched the door controls desperately, but they refused to respond.

He turned around, thinking to flee back into the safety of his father's private chambers, the ones nobody else was allowed into—but those doors also had sealed shut behind him. The only ones open were the ones leading to the main hall entrance. Shaking, Luke backed into a corner, out of sight of the main entrance. Whatever was happening, it must be really bad, because it had broken through the security of the top restricted floor now—that was what the new alarms were for. And Luke didn't know the emergency codes that would take him to safety.

There was still the security checkpoint at the main entrance to protect him…but whoever it was had managed to get this far without too much trouble, and Luke doubted there would be anything to interest intruders on this floor besides his father's chambers. He trembled violently, praying he was dead wrong, because he didn't have anything at all to protect himself.

_Father_, he moaned in his thoughts. Everything was mayhem in the castle, all the minds swirling with stress and adrenaline—the Force had become so turbulent that he found it extremely difficult even to find his father's presence, let alone make himself heard, but he cried out with everything he had, the same as he had done before he even knew his father lived. He couldn't help it—it was pure instinct. _Please hear me, Father…_

"Luke!"

Luke nearly shrieked aloud, shocked out of his searches by the terrible thought that an intruder had managed to sneak up on him completely undetected. His heart rate subsided significantly when the shimmering, ghostly form of Obi-Wan Kenobi congealed in the middle of the small room he was in.

"Master Obi-Wan," he gasped with relief.

Obi-Wan smiled gently at him, apparently oblivious to the raging of the alarms. "It's all right, my young friend," he reassured Luke. "Relax. There's nothing to fear."

Luke stared at him in disbelief. "But, Obi-Wan, someone's broken into the floor—" he began.

"Yes," Obi-Wan nodded. "But it is someone you know quite well, Luke. It is Han."

"H-han?" Luke breathed. "It's just Han?" The sudden absence of strain and fear nearly made him sag to the floor. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, Luke. He's trying to rescue you."

Luke was thoroughly bewildered by this, though confusion could not dampen his rising excitement. "Rescue me? Why do I need to be rescued?"

"That's not important," Obi-Wan said. "What _is_ important is that unless you intervene, your father will most likely kill Han."

"N-no—you're wrong—he wouldn't—you're _wrong…_" Luke shook his head in sharp denial as all sorts of unwanted memories of his father arose. Over the last five months, it hadn't been hard to forget that the man who had tended his hurt shoulder and sparred with him and given him the droids, was the same man he had heard described as a murdering monster for the vast majority of his thirteen years. Now he trembled at the painful recollections of all he had heard, at the memory of pain stabbing harshly down his spine in the Coruscant interrogation room.

"Luke, your father does love you," Obi-Wan said, coming closer to him. "But he is jealous. He will be furious with Han for trying to take you away."

"Should I go with Han?" Luke whispered, feeling horribly lost.

Obi-Wan smiled sadly. "The two of you would not escape, my young friend. I fear the fate to which that might lead you." Haunting images of Padmé rose up to cry their warning in the Jedi's mind. Anakin had loved Padmé too…and look how that had ended.

"You are the only person who can protect Han," Obi-Wan urged him. "He is on this floor. You must go out and find him before your father does."

Luke wavered, fear evident. "What if he hurts me?" the boy whispered.

Obi-Wan felt a definite empathy. The boy was risking much on such a brief acquaintance with his father. Obi-Wan was certain that in these circumstances, Vader would not harm Luke, would not even dream of it—but Luke was not so familiar with the complexities of Anakin Skywalker's warped mind. He could not have that certainty.

"He will not," Obi-Wan reassured him firmly. "Your presence will cause him to exercise restraint. That is why you have a chance to save Han."

Luke nodded a bit shakily, and proved that he had inherited his mother's courage by straightening up and marching straight for the main entrance door.

…

Vader was halfway from the hangar to the turbolift when new alarms began to squall. Instantly his fury leapt up several notches, as did his urgency. Solo had somehow managed to breach the security on the top floor! Chaos take the Corellian and his twice-cursed luck! Vader doubled the speed of his strides. Miyr should have gotten his children to the safe room beneath the castle by now, but the situation might have been complicated by Luke's location…he pulled his comlink from his belt and tried to contact the woman, but no matter how many times he tried she did not answer.

That was not a good sign—

_Father! Please hear me…_

Luke's voice surged up quickly in his mind, crying to him through the Force. Vader stiffened, trying to trace the cry back through the emotional mayhem storming through the castle and get some sense of the boy's state. There were no further pleas, however, and the single trace of fear he'd been able to discern through the bedlam almost immediately dissipated.

The dark lord turned in furious, impatient circles as the lift rose upward, far too slowly for his current taste. It was an unbearable eternity before the doors hissed open and admitted him to the gruesome sight of the blasted-out security checkpoint. Blackly he noted the corpses of the guards and biometric array, but he did not abate his pace until he reached the door—where he glanced down and saw a figure sprawled on the floor across the threshold, clad in flowing dark blue, dark braid lying limply stretched.

Miyr. Concerned despite the pressing need to protect Luke, Vader took a precious moment to kneel and check the woman's pulse, curiously relieved when he felt it pumping firmly beneath his prosthetic fingers. She was not dead—merely unconscious. That was fortunate. It would spare him the trouble of finding another trustworthy and competent employee to care for his children, and spare the children the stress of switching caretakers.

He straightened and placed his hand on the ID verification scanner, waiting for the security system to recognize him and permit him to pass. Her presence at the door meant she had either been leaving to retrieve or returning with the emergency override password to his private chambers, in order to bring Luke to safety—no matter which it had been, she had never gotten Luke to the safe room. His son was still within Solo's reach. It was time to end this Corellian's foolishness before Solo could find the boy. The dark lord's strides rang with fell purpose as he passed through the door and stalked down the hall.

…

Han knew which door was the right one the second he saw it. It was big, it was thick, it was black, and it was practically infested with security systems. It was several turns and halls away from the security checkpoint at the turbolift, sitting ominously at the end of its own corridor like the entrance to a space slug cave or something equally odious. There should have been a doormat reading "LAIR SWEET LAIR" or something.

Han didn't have the faintest idea how he was going to bust past all of that security. After all, it wasn't like he could expect somebody convenient to be just coming out from the other side _again_—

But lo and behold, before his disbelieving eyes, yet another miracle struck. A dumbfounded Han Solo watched through the narrow eyeplates of his stormtrooper helmet as the heavily fortified door cycled smoothly open. He blinked into the shadows beyond for a moment, a moment that seemed to freeze as a very familiar and short figure emerged cautiously, glancing up at the alarms wailing in the ceiling overhead.

Han gave an overjoyed cry, tore off his helmet, and ran forward, waving his blaster around ecstatically. "Luke!"

Luke's blue eyes widened, and an instant later he was leaping up to fling his arms around his friend, overjoyed. "Han!"

…

Vader's pace quickened yet again as, nearing his quarters entrance, he heard a shout of "Luke!"

The dark lord turned the last corner just in time to see his young son run straight into the arms of an armored Han Solo. The Corellian laughed aloud and spun Luke around before setting him down and ruffling the boy's hair.

"Kid, you're okay!" Solo crowed in delight. "Sith, I missed you!"

"I missed _you_," Luke insisted, unwittingly sending a sharp pang into his father's spirit. Had his son truly missed the Corellian so much all these months?

"Is the _Falcon_ here?" Luke's young voice continued from where he now stood hidden behind Solo.

"Yeah, and boy, but you'd hardly recognize her," Solo told him cheerfully. "Just wait'll you see all the new gear I've got wired in! Come on—we better get movin'—"

Solo turned around, jumped several inches, and swore a blue streak. "Get behind me!" he ordered Luke. The next instant the impudent teenager had snapped his blaster up, aiming straight for the control panel on Vader's chest.

Fury pumping through every surviving vein, Vader took the lightsaber from his belt and ignited it. "You were released once, Solo," he told the Corellian coldly. "There will be no such leniency extended to you again. You have meddled for the last time."

"You're not takin' Luke again," Han Solo had the unbelievable gall to snarl at him.

Vader advanced dangerously—and stopped in his tracks as Luke suddenly dashed between his father and his friend. "Please," he said desperately, staring at his father with Padmé's eyes. "Father, please!"

Stunned in spite of himself, Vader quickly lowered the saber, keeping it well clear of the child.

"Luke, stand aside—"

"Get outta the way, kid!"

Luke whirled around to face Han. "Stop it, Han," he pleaded. "Stop it!" He spun back towards his father.

"Luke, Vader's messin' with your head!" Han shouted. "He's not your dad!"

Vader was somewhat surprised that Han was not more shocked by Luke's referring to him as _father_. In fact, the young man looked as though he'd known about it long enough to get very indignant about it.

He felt a sudden pleasure when Luke turned back once more and said to his friend, "Yes, he _is_ my father." There was not a shred of doubt in the young one's voice. What a contrast to their encounter aboard the _Millennium Falcon_ only five months ago.

"Sith, I gotta get you outta here," Solo murmured in horror, clearly not persuaded. "He's got you brainwashed!"

Vader's lightsaber nearly snapped back up, Luke or no Luke. "I did not _brainwash _my _son_," he hissed in possessive fury. "And you will _not_ take _my child_ from me again!"

Han tried to sidestep around Luke, incredibly. "Oh, _I _took him from _you_, huh?" the Corellian shouted belligerently. "That's funny, 'cause I seem to remember you draggin' him kickin' and screamin' away from _me_!"

"He was _stolen_ from me—" Vader began—

"_Hey_! I'm not a piece of furniture here!" the youngest voice present shouted furiously. Luke was firing alternating glares at both of them. "Neither of you _owns_ me or anything!"

Vader was shocked into silence by the reminder of his past. Owns…

"Luke, you don't honestly want to _stay _with this creep, do you?" Han cut in while Vader was still shell-shocked. "I mean, even if he _was_ your old man, he's still a krethin' mass murderer! Did you forget about the Jedi, huh? What about the old Kenobi guy?"

Luke looked helplessly up at Solo. "Han, he needs me," his son whispered.

It was Han's turn to be silenced. Luke turned back to his father and approached a bit gingerly. "Father, please don't hurt him," his boy begged him quietly. "Please, he's my friend."

_He is your friend, child?_

_Yes…_

His anger with Solo was no less. But Luke would never forgive him if he killed the boy's closest friend; it would hardly be the way to encourage the child to trust him. Besides…Solo had braved an entire Imperial fortress on his own because he believed Luke was in danger. Vader forced himself to acknowledge the potential value of such devotion. Force, the teenager was even willing to take on a Sith lord to protect his friend! Incredibly foolish…but still…

"I cannot allow your friend to leave this time," Vader finally announced, feeling his resolve relent even as he spoke. Solo knew of the relationship between them—and other ears might not be so skeptical. He must not risk his son's safety.

"Then let him stay!" Luke was snatching at possibilities. Vader tasted disgust on his tongue at the idea of the Corellian remaining here with his child…

Abruptly, Obi-Wan was standing there beside Luke also. "Yes, Anakin," the Jedi urged. "Let Han stay here with Luke—the boy needs the company."

Vader thought grudgingly back to the loneliness he had sensed in the child earlier. It was true that the fellow teenage boy would be more suitable companionship for his son than two tiny girls could be…a pity it had to be _this_ teenage boy. And it was also true that Han could provide some measure of stability for Luke, having taken care of the boy for a longer amount of time than Vader had. But _still_—did Obi-Wan honestly think Vader would permit his son to remain in the care of this…street rat?

"Han is a relatively neutral party," Obi-Wan forged onward, building up his case. "He has no allegiances to either the Jedi or the Sith. He shares many of Luke's interests. Luke is familiar with him; they are close in age. He has an honorable spirit. And furthermore, Han has no other relatives or guardians to lay claim to him. He is an ideal candidate." The ghost spread his hands.

"I do not _trust_ him," Vader countered acidly. Solo was not an ideal candidate—he was the _only _candidate, and the knowledge just served to anger Vader further. Luke listened tensely to the conversation, glancing between his father and Obi-Wan. Han gawked as the dark lord addressed what was apparently thin air.

"Have your captain and Miyr keep an eye on him," Obi-Wan suggested quickly.

Landre…there was a thought. Perhaps Landre would be a good influence on both of the boys.

Vader considered his options silently for a few minutes. "If I agree to permit him, I require your word that neither you nor any other Jedi will ever again interfere with my son," he finally demanded severely.

Obi-Wan hesitated and glanced down at a somewhat stricken-looking Luke. "Very well," the Jedi said softly.

Vader could scarcely believe Kenobi would accept _that_ particular term.

"Unless," Kenobi added, "Luke himself so chooses when he is of age."

Vader had to concede that. Luke's loyalty to his father would mean nothing if it was coerced. He had learned that the very, very hard way with Padmé. Vader would simply ensure that he earned his son's devotion long before that time arose. Besides, it wasn't as though he would be able to prevent Luke from speaking with the deceased Jedi forever; some day the child would grow up. There was no point pretending otherwise.

The dark lord turned to Luke. "I will consider this," he told his son, "and give you my decision by morning. In the meantime, your friend will be restrained."

"Like the nine hells you're gonna!" Solo again, back in form. Vader regarded the boy with clinical distaste.

"Be thankful I am allowing you _that_ much leniency, Solo," he said coldly. "It is hardly required of me."

"Han, please?" Luke turned back to his friend. "Trust me?"

Young Solo wavered. "Kid—it's _Darth Vader_," he finally breathed. "Did you forget that?"

"No," Luke said. "That's why you better take what you can get."

_Kid's got a point_, Han thought grimly.

His son turned back nervously to him, blue eyes still wide. "Father, promise you won't hurt him?" Luke whispered. "Promise?"

Vader strongly suspected that Sara and Sandra had taught their brother a few techniques for getting what was desired from their father, because that was exactly the same expression the twins used on him when they didn't want to go to bed.

His fingers still itched fiercely to latch around Solo's offensive throat and throttle the life out of the scum who had shot his soldiers and tried to spirit _his own son_ away from him. His mind ached to vent his barely contained fury. He had rarely ever been so angry at a single person. But he knew that his young one sensed his anger, and it was frightening the boy. He must control his anger around the child—lest he lose control and hurt Luke, as he had the boy's mother.

"Your friend will not be harmed," he said in clipped tones.

"_Promise_?" Luke insisted.

"I…promise."

Luke breathed a sigh of relief, and Vader vowed fiercely not to betray the child's trust on this matter. It had been too hard-won to lose over the issue of Solo.

"Drop that blaster, Solo," he ordered sternly.

The dismayed young Corellian glanced between Vader and Luke, shooting one more pleading gaze at the latter. But slowly, he set the blaster down on the ground. Vader snapped the weapon into his own hand with a tendril of the Force, made speedy by his tight-leashed anger. Footsteps clattered up behind him and he handed the blaster to one of the newly-arrived stormtroopers without looking. "Arrest the dark one," he ordered sharply.

"No!" Luke shouted, and dashed to intervene—Vader caught the boy's arms and pulled him back, allowing the stormtroopers to pass and seize Solo.

_Hush, my son, hush. I will keep my promise to you_, he soothed the child. _Trust me. _

Luke glanced up at his father, alarm fading slowly out of his eyes.

"Take him to the detention block on this floor," Vader commanded, "and place him in an interrogation room. I will speak with this impostor shortly."

The troopers nodded and dragged a defeated Han Solo away in their midst. Vader watched them go, his hand stroking Luke's hair rhythmically—as much to soothe his own ire as to calm the child. "Would you have left with him?" Vader asked suddenly into the stillness. He dreaded the answer…yet he had to know.

Luke was silent for a long time. "I miss flying," he said finally. "I miss it when I could go anywhere I wanted."

Vader hastened to reassure Luke, driven by his dread of losing the boy. "That freedom will come again, when you are older," he promised his child. "In the meantime, perhaps I could procure some flight simulators for you." Luke nodded acceptingly, and silence resumed for a time.

"Do not leave me, little one," Vader spoke up again fiercely. His mind burned with the memory of the betrayals of Mustafar. "Promise me that." His fingers tightened on Luke's small shoulders.

"Ever?" Luke asked rather glumly. "Like, not _ever_?"

His intensity abated somewhat. "That is not what I meant, son."

"Oh," the young teenager answered, clearly not understanding what his father _did_ mean. The next silence began as Vader contemplated a better way to explain himself.

"I love you, father," Luke said into the quietness.

After that, no promises were necessary.


	24. Solo and the Sith

Author's Note: Wow, guys! Thanks for all of those reviews! I feel much more encouraged. winks I don't expect much feedback from this chapter…it's pretty much just necessary filler while the story's hanging in between action plots. A few loose ends to tie up before we move on…I promise things will pick back up in the next chapter, though. Again, thanks for reviewing me so generously!

…

The guards dragged Han through the corridors of the floor, away from Luke. Han's head was spinning too much for him to notice that they weren't being exceptionally gentle. He stumbled wherever they prodded him with their blasters; eventually he found himself standing dazedly in a cell virtually no different from the one he'd been thrown into on Coruscant. The detention block officer ordered him to strip off the stolen stormtrooper armor, and when he'd done so they shut the door on him.

It didn't open again for about twelve hours.

…

So sharply reminded of what the boy meant to him, it was a full hour before Vader could leave Luke's side. He took the boy back to his room, deep inside Vader's private chambers, and watched him fall asleep. It was late, and so the boy drifted off quickly, but Vader's dread of somehow losing his son was still strong enough that it was several minutes before he recalled that he had two other children, whose frightened sobs were growing steadily stronger in the Force.

Vader tore himself away from Luke's sleeping form and took the emergency turbolift down to the safe room. The two-year-old girls ensconced therein were huddled in a drowsy, tearful pile in one corner of the room. He quickly swept them into his arms and tucked his cloak around, cursing Solo anew as he felt their small bodies trembling fearfully. They clung tightly to him on the ride back up to their nursery and for a whole hour after that, until he managed to soothe their small minds enough that he could put them to bed again.

Only when all three children were securely in their beds did Vader switch on his comlink. He spent the rest of the night at large around the castle, trying to set the place back to rights without Miyr's invaluable assistance. His castle's caretaker had been ferried down to the medbay, where she had been diagnosed with a mild concussion. Yet another reason to detest Han Solo, as if he didn't have more than enough already…

As dawn broke over Vjun, he finally directed himself towards the top floor's detention block, and a long-overdue conversation with Solo.

…

Han was trying very hard not to think about his near future—and, most likely, death—when the near future abruptly arrived in his cell. Darth Vader ducked through the entrance to the interrogation room, and oddly enough Han's apprehension was instantly replaced by a powerful sensation of déjà vu. _Just like old times_, he thought rather giddily. Then Vader began.

"The only reason you are not dead," he thundered in spine-chilling tones, "is because Luke would not like it. When I weigh that fact, however, against your offenses, I find the margin to be dangerously slim. Consider this your chance to offer more convincing reasons as to why I should permit you to continue breathing."

"Why don't you give me a good reason for why I oughta leave Luke with you?" Han fired back. He was dead anyway, so he might as well go down fighting—

Some invisible hand shoved Han angrily back against the wall, quickly delivering a mortal blow to his new devil-may-care approach. "Luke is my son," Vader hissed at him. "And you, Solo, are in no position to be making demands."

He had a point at that. The Jedi-Sith-magic-stuff pinning Han against the wall constricted sharply at his throat, thought not quite enough to strangle him. Yeah, Han thought frantically, he had a _real_ good point.

"You invaded my private residence, gunned down my officers in cold blood, sent my administrator to the medical bay, destroyed several thousand credits' worth of Imperial property"—Vader's voice dropped into a poisonous whisper—"and you attempted to kidnap my son. I am most interested to hear what possible excuse for this outrage you can contrive, _boy_."

"Yeah," Han choked out. "Well—ma-aybe—if—you let—go—"

The invisible band of something unclenched around his neck. Vader crossed his arms and regarded him from behind that death's head mask of his.

"Cause I ain't gonna leave Luke in the lurch, that's why!" Han snapped as soon as he had enough air.

The Sith lord released his pinning grip on Han, letting him away from the wall. "What is the boy to you, Solo?" Vader said, rather softly for him.

Han sat helplessly. He didn't have much of answer for that one, but he gave the only one he did. "He's my friend," he mumbled.

To his surprise, Vader remained silent, rather than scorning his words. The emboldened Corellian pressed on. "He's my friend, and Kenobi told me to watch out for him and keep him safe, an' I'm gonna do it if it kills me!"

Vader regarded him silently for several seconds, which felt far more like several minutes. Just as Han was beginning to feel remarkably like a deformed amoeba under a high-definition microscope, the dark lord reached into his belt and withdrew a pair of durasteel cuffs, which he clapped around Han's wrists. Then Vader closed the distance between the two of them, grabbed Han by the scruff of the neck, and marched him out of the cell into the corridor.

They swept past the bewildered guards at the control desk, and then out of the detention block altogether into the austere décor of the outside hall. The next thing Han recognized was the cave-like door leading to Vader's private quarters, where he'd been arrested in the first place. The security systems must have recognized Vader from a distance, for the door swished open while they approached. Vader didn't miss a beat as he hauled Han straight inside. He was dragged by his collar through a few more hallways and eventually plopped down into a chair in what looked like a real small sort of conference room.

"I do _not_ advise that you attempt to leave, Solo," Vader said calmly as he vanished out the door again.

Han figured he'd better listen for once.

…

Somebody was shaking his shoulder. Luke blinked his eyes and squinted at the chrono projected onto the wall by his bed—sheesh, it was only six in the morning! He moaned irritably and snuggled deeper in his pillows, studiously ignoring whoever it was that wanted him up at such an unholy hour.

The shaking grew more impatient. "Get up, Luke," an unmistakable bass rumbled overhead.

"Don't wanna," he mumbled sleepily, trying to twist his shoulder out of his father's grip.

"Get up," his father repeated. The shaking persisted, but so did Luke's obstinacy. He refused to budge or let go of his pillows, until Vader finally hauled him up by the back of his neck.

"Fa-_ther_," he complained from behind his pillows and yawns.

"Up," was the curt reply. When he tried to flop back down, he was hauled out of bed entirely and onto his dangerously swaying feet.

"Get dressed," his father continued. Luke stumbled forward, rubbing at his eyes, and smacked straight into Vader, sending his pillows scattering. The man gave an exasperated sigh. Between coming to his bleary senses and shooting murderous glares at his father, it took Luke a solid ten minutes to work himself into a jumpsuit. Even then he wasn't quite awake, and his father had to take him by the hand and lead him through the corridors outside, where the cold did a better job of driving away his sleepiness.

He was therefore fairly alert by the time they stopped outside of a door that Luke thought lead to the conference room. A minute or two later, he perked up a little as Doctor Siler appeared, his bag in hand.

"Good morning, Luke," the doctor greeted him with a small smile. "No trouble from that arm?"

Luke shook his head.

"Good morning, my lord," Siler added with a nod to Vader.

"You have the requisite equipment, I trust."

"Certainly."

Luke was puzzled by that particular exchange, but then his father opened the door to the conference room, and Luke spotted a very familiar figure waiting inside. "Han!" He dashed past his father and claimed the seat beside his friend.

Han looked as though he'd gotten even less sleep than Luke had. "You're okay?" Luke asked him.

"Yeah," Han said slowly, glancing up at Vader as though he couldn't quite believe that nothing had happened to him yet. "Yeah, just didn't sleep much." The older boy's eyes narrowed as Siler came into the room. "Who's that guy?" he demanded of Vader.

"Solo, this is my personal physician, Doctor Siler," Vader said. "Doctor, Han Solo."

The medic nodded curtly at Han.

"I have called Doctor Siler to have him perform a blood test," Vader continued.

Han stiffened up as Siler began to empty to contents of his bag onto the table, setting out the proper equipment. The medic picked up a sealed packet of syringes and handed it across the table to Han. Han could tell that the devices were totally empty, and the factory seals on their group and individual packages hadn't been broken. Siler gestured for him to do the unwrapping, and Han slowly handed the medic a brand-new syringe. After the syringes came a brand-new package of sample vials, all made of clear, unmarred glass, and lastly a still-packaged medical data reader and a separately packaged blood analysis program. One by one, Han was given each to inspect and unwrap, and lastly Vader had him load the new data reader with the analysis program, after allowing him to wipe all of the reader's memory systems.

Only when Han had seen for himself that no trickery was involved in the devices did Siler begin. He took the syringe and circled the table to Luke. "Let me see your arm, son," he told Luke gently.

Luke frowned curiously up at his father, who gave him a reassuring nod. The medic rolled up his sleeve, and Luke glanced to the side. Siler drew a blood sample directly from his arm while Han watched. The blood was put into one of the new sample vials, and then it was his father's turn. Both Han and Luke watched that procedure with great interest; Siler had to take the fresh blood sample from the shoulder, since both of the dark lord's arms were prosthetic. The medic explained as much to Han as he worked, and demonstrated the truth of this fact by removing both the shoulder plate and the glove from the arm in question, letting Han view both the obviously mechanical hand under the glove (which did not have the benefit of synthflesh covering) and the pale intact skin at the shoulder.

They gave Han the vials of blood and the data reader and let him run the comparative analysis himself.

There was a long silence after the results displayed on the reader's screen.

"I trust this is satisfactory proof, Solo," Vader commented, crossing his arms. Luke watched Han nod numbly, his eyes locked on the analysis results.

_Kreth…Luke really is his kid. _Han glanced up finally at his young friend, who was watching him with evident anxiety. "He didn't hurt you, kid?" the Corellian finally whispered to Luke.

Luke shook his head.

Han's shoulders slumped. "Well, okay then," he muttered, dropping the data reader on the conference table.

…

The day was a very strange one from there on out. Vader dragged Han back to the detention block after the blood test had proven to the Corellian once and for all that Luke was in fact the son of the Sith lord. Sithspawn, Han thought as he was hauled into a much less appealing cell than he'd previously inhabited, and laughed madly at his own pun. He forgot about Luke for a few minutes when Vader had him strapped into a very nasty-looking chair, and his heart rate pumped. All they did, however, was inject him with some kind of chip. It wasn't the most pleasant experience he'd ever had, considering that they stuck the injector up his nose and shot the chip into his brain area, but it was no worse than a headache.

After that, Vader took off the binders and turned him over to some lieutenant or other, and he got escorted back downstairs into some kind of control room, where he recognized the officer who had been in the hangar.

Captain Landre was not all that pleased to make his acquaintance, whatever he said. But Han _had_ picked off a handful of his men, so that wasn't too surprising.

"Lord Vader informs me that you have been injected with a collar chip," Landre began. "Bast Castle is protected by a full spherical shield, extending twenty miles in every direction from the center of mass. Should you attempt to pass through this shield, the chip will alert Castle Control, and the system will initiate its self-destruct. Rest assured that the resultant explosion will kill you, Solo."

Han flushed with rising fury. They'd stuck him with a slave implant, was what they'd done! Chaos take Vader!

"Unless you are by chance an advanced neurosurgeon, I strongly advise that you not make any efforts to remove the chip," Landre added. "Now. This chip does not restrict your movements within the castle, and Lord Vader has directed that I provide you with the security passcodes for the top floor and his personal quarters."

Han's anger was drowned in a flood of incredulity. The Sith lord was givin' him all of the passcodes for his castle? Even the key to his bedroom? What was going on?

After he'd been registered in the castle databases and given a top-security clearance, Landre took him around the castle and its grounds, showing him where stuff was. They stopped by some supply office or other and Han was given a new comlink. He gaped as he flipped through the contact list already built into it. Kreth, but he wished Lando was around so he could brag about havin' Darth Vader's private comlink number…

The chronos announced it to be roughly time for dinner before Landre escorted Han back up to the conference room in Vader's quarters. He recognized the woman waiting inside. It was the lady he'd slugged and stunned with his blaster. She didn't look much the worse for wear, even if her smile was a little tight. "You must be Han Solo," she said to him.

He nodded stiffly.

"I am Miyr. I officially serve Lord Vader as the manager of Bast Castle's affairs. I unofficially serve him as caretaker for his family."

Han felt a flood of guilt. Sheesh, he'd gone and beat up the lady who'd been taking care of Luke. "Uh, how's your head?" he mumbled.

Her smile got just a little tighter. "I'll be fine, thank you," she said. Han couldn't help but admire the control she had on her temper. He'd have been spitting fire by now.

"Look, uh, Miyr—you mind tellin' me what the Sith is goin' on?"

"Going on."

"Yeah—they're givin' me passwords and slave implants and tours, and I don't get it."

Miyr frowned. "Lord Vader did not explain to you?"

Han shook his head.

"Then I will allow him to do so," said Miyr. "In the meantime I'm to give you a tour of Lord Vader's quarters."

Han scowled at not getting his confusion resolved, but followed her out of the conference room.

"This door," Miyr announced after they'd been through almost all of the rooms, "leads into Lord Vader's private chambers. You have not been given the passcodes for this area, as they are off-limits to anyone except Lord Vader and his son." She gestured to the other side of the room. "This door leads to the children's suite."

Children?

Miyr opened the door, and Han gaped at what he saw therein.

Darth Vader, dark lord of the Sith and murderer of the Jedi Order, sat calmly in a very big and rather cushy-looking armchair, beside which was an enormous messy pile of snap-blocks. Luke sat by the blocks with his back against the side of the chair, idly piecing together a pretty accurate replica of the _Falcon_, and handing up blocks of various sizes and shapes when Vader asked him for something. The dark lord himself was quite handily fashioning a miniature TIE fighter.

But most surprising of all were the two extremely cute little girls helping him out with the project.

"Solo," Vader greeted him with as much cool, dangerous confidence as ever, not bothering to look up.

"Han!" Luke jumped to his feet, leaving the half-completed _Falcon_ model on the—the _pink carpet? _

Han stared at them all, feeling his mouth go dry from being left open. "What the…_what_?" he stammered.


	25. A Difference of Opinion

Author's Note: Thanks for the reviews, all of you! Especially for such an unexceptional chunk of reading…you all are too nice. This update isn't so long as the last, but it's at least twice as dramatic. Hope you'll enjoy! Tell me if you do. It makes my day. And now, without further ado or procrastination…I give you Chapter Twenty-Five. dum da-dum dum

_A few days later…_

Although the past few days had dimmed Vader's burning desire to kill or severely maim Han Solo on sight, the dark lord's temper had grown far sharper. His patience constantly teetered at the brink of a long and usually fatal plunge into wild fury, the repeated slips down which had already claimed the lives of at least as many stormtroopers as Solo had shot. He could only barely retain the presence of mind to realize that he should not under any circumstances visit the children in such a volatile mood.

Thanks to Solo's unanticipated arrival, Vader had found himself compelled to remain at Bast Castle for three full days more in order to make all the necessary arrangements. He'd been risking much by vanishing with Luke for as long as he had, and every additional hour could be counted on to shoot the Emperor's suspicion up another notch. Possibly two.

The fear that he might be endangering his little ones' safety was more than enough to put Vader in a fearsome temper. And in order to allay Palpatine's suspicion, he would have to stay away from Bast Castle for a very considerable length of time—certainly more than a year. In fact, two was likely to be the minimum. Faced with a lengthy separation from his children, on top of his other concerns, Vader quickly misplaced his last scrap of serenity and became a thoroughly unholy terror, raging his relentless way through itemized lists of tasks like a deranged reek.

But three days later, he was done, and the realization that he would be able to depart soon and allay Palpatine's suspicions helped him to unearth his lost patience. Luke and Han were both in their new sets of rooms, equipped with what should be more than enough to occupy two teenage boys—flight simulators, Artoo and Threepio, the _Falcon_ in his private hangar for them to tinker with, and Captain Landre to give them lessons in naval history and strategy until Vader could provide an acceptable tutor. He'd also left Luke some books and instructions, which should be enough assistance for such a promising student to finish developing and refining basic and a few intermediate skills.

He couldn't think of anything undone that Miyr couldn't be trusted to handle…

His shuttle and the Fleet were awaiting him. Brusquely Vader pushed away the awareness that, precluding either Palpatine's improbable death or infinitely more improbable retirement, he would not return to his children for up to two years. The landing ramp of his shuttle extended, and he began to ascend—

"My lord! My lord, one moment!"

Vader turned, irritated at the prolonging of his departure. It was Landre.

"What is it?" he demanded. It went without saying that the disturbance had best be a worthy one.

"My lord, I took the precaution of having Solo's ship, the _Falcon_, inspected before moving it into your private hangar," Landre began. He extended his hand, holding a data chip. "Although all of the memory systems had been wiped by Solo, this chip was discovered in a miniature trash compactor which apparently malfunctioned. I thought you should see the recording it contains."

He handed Vader a miniature projector from his pocket. The annoyed dark lord took it and plugged in the chip, hoping for Landre's sake that this recording was worth his ti—

"Hey, you work!" a familiar young voice crowed out of the unit's speakers. Vader stared at the image of his son tinkering away at Threepio.

This recording had come from the _Executor_. He recognized the rooms he had set aside for Luke.

The chatter on the recording continued. Vader barely listened until his son was heard to say, "…My guardian gave you to me."

His eyes narrowed under the mask and he ordered the recording to back up. He watched more closely the second time…yes. Yes, the recording had been altered. By the movement of Luke's mouth, the word originally spoken had been two syllables, not three. _Father_.

Someone had altered this recording.

He continued watching, as the door in the image opened to reveal himself. Suddenly he recalled the conversation he had had at the time with Luke. _Would you rather I called you son? _Again, the words of the conversation had been changed to conceal the truth of the relationship between Vader and Luke. The recording ended.

And a cold, frightened, lethal anger began to build within Vader. Solo would have had no reason to edit the recording; therefore he had gotten this recording from someone else, who _did_ have reason.

There was someone else in the galaxy with the dangerous information that Vader had a living child, and furthermore that said child was being hidden in his care. Someone he did not control. Someone with the resources to breach his security all the way into his private sanctum.

Artoo, Vader realized coldly. Artoo must have transmitted the recording. Well, he knew better than anyone else that he would never get any sort of admission out of the stubborn astromech. It had a rare gift for obstinacy. But there was still one other person in Bast Castle who could identify this "someone"…Han Solo.

His departure, it seemed, would have to be delayed.

…

"Sheesh, Artoo, where the heck did you pick up all this carbon scoring?"

The astromech only gave a nonchalant twitter. Luke scowled at the patch marring the droid's silvery skin, scraping away at it furiously with a smoother as he tried to level out the scorched spot with the rest of the casing. He was beginning to think he might just have to start replacing the droid's plating to get rid of all the scoring on its shell.

So intent was the young man on his task—deliberately intent, the better to forget that his father was leaving today—that he jumped when the door hissed open behind his back. The smoother's edge drew a fresh score line down Artoo's barrel body; he threw it down in frustration as he whirled around. Doggone it, if that was Miyr_ again_—

"Father!" he gasped in total surprise, quickly picking himself up off the floor. "I—I thought you were leaving."

A rush of what might be the hottest anger he had ever sensed from his father seemed to heat and chill him at the same time. His delighted surprise suffered a quick death as he backed up a step instinctively, terrified that his father was angry with _him_, at a loss for what he could have done.

"I was detained," his father said, his voice dangerously close to a hiss. The black helmet shifted to focus on Artoo. "Get that droid out of this room," he ordered.

Luke obeyed in record time, but his fingers shook as he shut the door behind Artoo. Slowly, battling to contain his fear, he turned back around.

"Come here."

Luke did not dare refuse…yet he couldn't make himself go closer. His feet would not go. His heart pounded so hard it was nearly painful, and his mouth had gone dry as the Dune Sea. _Do what he says, Luke! _he shouted at himself.

Still he stood frozen by the door, not responding to the order. His father turned angrily around.

"_Come here_."

Luke found himself shaking his head almost convulsively. What was he thinking? This wasn't the way to make his father _less_ angry!

His father stalked towards him, anger resounding through the floor with every stride, and after roughly an eternity he was standing in front of Luke. Luke flinched instinctively when he raised his hand—but the hand came down very gently to grip his shoulder, in that familiar gesture of soothing. When Vader again spoke, his anger had been brought under control.

"Do not be afraid," his father told him. "I am not angry with you."

Luke wanted to slump against the doorframe with relief. Instead he was guided over to his bed and told to sit down, which was _not_ a difficult order to follow.

His father withdrew a miniature data projector from his pocket and clenched it furiously. "It seems that someone has managed to penetrate my security. My men retrieved a holo of you repairing your droids aboard the _Executor_." The data projector went sailing across the room on a direct and very damaging collision course with the wall. "It was found aboard your friend's ship."

Luke sucked in his breath, instantly terrified for Han's safety.

"It is clear from the recording," his father continued in a tightly leashed tone, "that your friend must have received it from another individual, who presumably planted the spy system within your astromech."

Though his fear for Han dwindled some, it was replaced as it went by the fear that Artoo would be taken away from him.

"Luke, I do not have the necessary time to question your friend as to the source of this recording. He is far too recalcitrant, and I must leave quickly." His father turned to him. "You will retrieve this information in my stead. When you have it, you will inform me through the Force as I have taught you. Is this clear?"

"You want me to interrogate Han?" Luke could hardly believe his ears.

His father turned sharply as he continued to pace the confines of Luke's bedroom. "Did I not state that?" Impatience had added itself to his father's swirling, dark aura.

"He won't tell me," Luke tried softly.

"If your friend refuses to cooperate, then you will rip it directly from his mind," Vader said sharply. "Perhaps it would teach him respect—"

Luke whispered something that Vader _must_ have misheard. "What did you say?" the dark lord demanded, facing his child.

Luke lifted his head, displaying a spark of defiance in his blue eyes that Vader had last seen in them when they were colored green. "I said, I won't do that."

The anger rose to a dangerous pitch within his breast. "You will do as I say," Vader said coldly.

Luke leapt up, inspired by a sudden streak of boldness he'd nearly forgotten he had. "Not if it's wrong, I won't," he asserted.

"You are young and misguided," his father retorted. "You have no true understanding of the nature of right and wrong. I will be the judge of it, and you will accept my judgment."

Luke stood his ground with all of his mother's stubbornness. "It's _wrong_, and I'm not going to do it!"

The next instant his father's hand streaked out and grabbed him angrily by the collar. "For the sake of your own and your sisters' safety, which is far superior to any concern I may happen to harbor for Solo, you most certainly _will_ do whatever is necessary!" He lifted Luke's chin abruptly, forcing him to meet the dark gaze of the mask's eyeplates. "Should you choose to disobey me in this, I will be forced to summon Solo to Imperial Center and interrogate him myself. If that becomes necessary, you will not see him again, child, whether here at Bast Castle or anywhere else."

Luke fell back onto his bed when his father abruptly let go of him and stalked back towards the door. "I expect a response from you within three days," he said. "Captain Landre will have your astromech cleared of its spy programs." With that, Darth Vader was gone.


	26. An UnDiplomatic Solution

Author's Note: Sorry it took me a while to get you some more. It's a bit slow getting the story back into a swing, but I think I've got it on the move again. Hope you enjoy this next chapter! Thanks for all of your reviews for the last chapter. They make my day. And now…read away!

Han was having a hard time containing his elation. The kid's freaky dad was _finally _leaving! Even though Han knew this wasn't really going to help him sneak Luke out of Bast Castle, inasmuch as Luke didn't seem too keen on leaving and Han had that blasted tracking chip, at least he could live here without worrying about stepping on Darth Vader's massive and extremely touchy toes. However, he didn't plan on letting himself celebrate until he was dead sure Vader was gone. And besides that, he'd seen Luke and his little sisters for a bit this morning, at mealtime, and they'd all looked depressed. Especially the little twerplings. Sittin' there with their noses scrunched up all through breakfast, neither of them eating much of anything, and Han had only gotten halfway through his plate when one of them burst into sobs and scampered away. And whatever one of 'em did, you could be sure the other wasn't gonna be far behind.

Luke had stayed, and tried to look as though nothing was wrong with him, but Han could see that he wanted his dad to stay. What had happened during the last five months that had changed the kid's mind so drastically? Han could remember the day he'd left Luke at the museum with crystal clarity—how Luke had been hiding in the shadows when he got there, how scared he'd been, how urgent to get away. And now, the kid _wanted_ to be around Vader.

Maybe…just maybe there was a side of Vader that Han hadn't seen much of. Cause the way he'd acted around Han sure wouldn't have gotten Luke to like the guy.

Well…they wouldn't have to worry about Vader now. The guy was going. It'd be him and Luke, like before. Well, maybe not quite like before, but it was close enough to make Han grin. Besides, this castle didn't seem like such a terrible place to be stuck at. Han was willing to bet that with all the security systems and uptight Imperials and a nervous wreck of a babysitter, there was all _kinds_ of potential for him and Luke to create a little amusement for themselves…might even turn out to be more fun than the galaxy-hopping they'd been doing before.

It was gonna have to wait until Luke got over his dad leaving, 'course, but it hadn't taken the kid long to recover after losing Obi-Wan and his aunt and uncle, and that had been the permanent kind of losing, so Han felt sure the kid would be back in form pretty soon. In the meantime, he might as well check out those flight simulators and ascertain their level of crappiness.

He was pleasantly surprised. Most flight simulators stunk worse than a shipful of Gamorreans, but he'd forgotten that Vader commanded the Imperial Navy. The sims that Vader had put into the boys' new rec room were even better than top-notch Academy grade technology, loaded with virtual candy. If Han couldn't really fly a ship, well, this was only a hair away from being as good. Heck, he thought as he blasted his way through a series of beginner starfighter runs, these babies had probably come straight from Fleet Special Forces!

Maybe it paid off to have Darth Vader for a dad after all. Han grinned wickedly at the recollection that the dark lord was said to have a fortune second only to the Emperor's.

He felt better than he had for days after two hours in the sim. All that shooting and explosions had done wonders for his shrinking testosterone levels, after being stuck around a bunch of females for days. Han suspected it would have killed him if he'd been in Luke's position that week before he'd showed up on his rescue effort, forced to hang out with two girly toddlers twenty-four-seven. Sheesh, but the kid had to be made of solid durasteel to survive everything he'd been through and still—

Somebody rapped on the sim's sealed cover. "Han?" a muffled voice spoke up.

Han quickly hit the release button and grinned at Luke as the cover retracted. "Kid, you're not gonna believe how awesome these things are!" he crowed, expecting to prompt Luke's old enthusiasm.

But Luke stared past him with frantic eyes. "Han—I gotta talk to you," he said heavily.

Han felt his chest constrict violently. He scrambled out of the flight sim and grabbed Luke by the shoulders. "He didn't hurt you, did he, kid?" he demanded anxiously.

Luke shook his head—hesitantly. "No—no. But—Han, I gotta talk to you." The kid looked up at him in a manner that reminded Han of the day on the _Executor_, when Vader had been dragging him away.

"Sure," he said. "Sure." Luke nodded in relief. A few minutes later both boys were lounging silently on the room's couch. Luke still hadn't said a word. He was staring at the blank wall, and every few seconds his mouth would work nervously.

"Look, kid, you gonna say somethin' or not?" Han demanded.

Luke's eyes shifted back to him, and Han was alarmed anew by the dread and fear he saw in them. "Han—" he began, but lapsed again into silence.

A few seconds later, he spoke up again, his young voice echoing abruptly with determination. "Father told me that they found a—a recording of me on the _Falcon_," he said in a rush.

Han paled with sudden panic. They couldn't have! He'd erased all of the _Falcon_'s files, and he knew for sure that he hadn't missed getting rid first of the chip with the recording, and second of the copy that had gone into the game table's memory.

"He watched it," Luke continued, not looking at Han. "He thinks that you must have gotten it from someone else. He—he told me he didn't have time to ask you and he wants me to do it."

Han's stomach sank way, way down, so far down it must have oozed out of his toes altogether. Was Luke upset that Vader wanted him to run the interrogation…or that Han had had the recording?

The answer made all the difference in the world. "You gonna do what he says, kid?" Han challenged angrily. After _everything_ he'd done trying to take care of Luke—was the kid going to side with his dad every time? If that was the case, Han decided rashly, he was going to run through that security field before the day went out, cause he wasn't gonna stay here with that kind of Luke.

Luke turned back to him, his eyes glittering, and not with delight. "He said—he said if I didn't, he was gonna have you sent to him on Coruscant—and that I wouldn't—that he'd—"

Luke broke off, twisting his gaze away again, trembling, and Han felt pretty sure he knew just what Vader had threatened. Either Luke got the information from Han, or Vader would do it, and he wouldn't be nice about it. In fact, he'd go out of his way to be mean about it. Han swallowed at the threat of a genuine interrogation.

Vader would kill him after that.

"He said—he said he has to keep us safe," Luke breathed in a wavering voice. "He doesn't care how. I'm supposed to tell him in three days."

Han blew out a shaky breath.

"Han, please, you gotta tell me," Luke pleaded. "Please? He—he'll kill you if you don't! Han, please, I can't lose you too!"

Han felt so sick he couldn't breathe well. It was probably true that Luke couldn't lose him—the kid had lost so many other people already, for being just thirteen. He couldn't do that to Luke.

But if he told, Han had no illusions about what Vader would do to Bail Organa and his family. They would die, the senator and the queen and even the spunky, bratty little princess who wasn't any older than Luke, all people who had helped Han out when it was a dangerous thing to do. They'd helped _Luke_ too. He couldn't turn them in!

"Kid—I can't tell ya," Han finally mumbled.

Luke looked so pale Han thought he might faint. "No," he insisted feverishly. "No, you _have_ to!" _Please, I don't want to hurt you! I don't want to hurt you! _The litany fled back and forth through his head, seeming to spark little explosions everywhere.

"Kid, the people who gave me that recording helped me out a lot," Han retorted with determination. "I can't just hand 'em to your dad like some appetizer on a tray! You _know_ what he's gonna do to them, don't you?"

Luke trembled all over. "I know what he's gonna do to _you_ if you don't," he whispered. Slowly Luke swung himself up to sit straight, as if that would help keep him calm.

Han only shrugged, much more nonchalantly than he actually was feeling, which was panicky in the extreme. "Kid—I can't let those people get hurt," he said flatly. "Maybe your dad'll get it out of me anyway, but I'm not gonna make it easy."

Luke thought frantically, trying to find a way out…

And suddenly he felt a rush of relief as an idea came to him at last! It was really risky, and probably impossible, and he didn't even want to _think_ about how mad his father was going to be if he ever found out…but his father wasn't coming back for a long time, no matter how mad he got. A year or more ought to be enough to calm him down.

Right?

Well, Luke sure hoped so, because he couldn't think of any better ideas. Besides, since when had he turned into a scaredy-nerf? Boldened by that thought, he furrowed his eyebrows with sudden determination.

"I got an idea," he announced.

Han grinned at the familiar, gutsy glint that had finally come back into Luke's eyes. All of the sudden, he had a feeling that this was going to turn out good.

_A day later, and several lightyears away…_

Vader's shuttle was about to emerge from hyperspace when he felt a sudden flurry of activity through their bond. He stretched his awareness towards his boy. Fierce purpose met his probes, drawing a smile of approval into the scarred tissue of the dark lord's face. His smile faltered just a little at the realization that fear still lay beneath the boy's resolve, but it seemed that Luke had accepted his authority, or at least realized that his father was correct in this issue.

From what he could make out over their distance-dimmed bond, the child was attempting to gently persuade someone with the Force, and enjoying a fair amount of success. It seemed his son wanted to use a less aggressive method for wringing the information out of Solo. Well. Although the more aggressive technique would have done much to further his son's development in the ways of the dark side, the way his son had chosen would still help to hone his skills…even if it did smack of Jedi sensibilities.

He decided that he would simply accept the boy's obedience for the time being, and not criticize the manner in which the child did so. Such things could wait for a later time, and he did not wish to press Luke too hard. The boy had a history with the Jedi, much as he himself had had, and Palpatine had taken a full thirteen years to wean Anakin Skywalker away from the lies of the Order. Vader would be wise to exercise just as much patience with young Luke. For now, he would be satisfied with the progress the child had made thus far. In another two days, he would have confirmation of the boy's obedience, and he fully intended to praise the child for it.

The dark lord was in such an excellent mood when he arrived aboard the _Executor_ once more that he completely failed to be pessimistic when greeting Fifth Fleet's latest admiral.

_Back on the planet Vjun…_

"Kid, what the kreth did you just do?" Han demanded, his fingers itching desperately on the hilt of a small, commandeered blaster.

"Shut up and get in here before another guard shows up!" Luke hissed, already dodging through the door. Han spared a last glance at the stormtrooper meandering dreamily away down the hall before following his shorter companion. The door quickly sealed behind his back.

They were inside one of the hangars reserved for the castle's squadron of fighter pilots. The actual starfighters were in another, larger hangar, but this bay held a lineup of four standard lambda shuttles. There were some mechanics mulling around the ships, and some troopers on patrol at the other main entrance, but Luke had quickly whisked them both out of sight behind a convenient rack of hoses. Cautiously the two boys peered out from behind their shelter, blasters in hand and locked into stun mode.

"You got any distractions in mind?" Han whispered to Luke.

Luke nodded. "Better go for the closest one," he said, pointing at the shuttle which was resting about twenty meters away.

"Yeah we better, ain't got that much time," Han agreed softly. Luke's little capering with the castle security system would buy them a couple of hours away from their electronic babysitters, and Miyr of course was somewhere downstairs running things. They wouldn't have to worry about her unless they tripped an alarm. But if they weren't back upstairs in time, the cams would report them missing, and that was the biggest alarm you could trigger at Bast Castle. They'd better get moving.

Luke nodded in agreement and suddenly closed his eyes, furrowing his brow in deep concentration. Han was almost tempted to laugh at the kid, when the mechanics' tool-charging bank abruptly started to spark and smoke. The mechanics working on that nearby shuttle quickly rushed over to stop a possible explosion, and by the time they turned back around Han and Luke could have run between the hose rack and the shuttle three times. In a couple of seconds, the two boys were safely aboard, out of sight.

They made for the cockpit, Han making sure to lower the shades on the transparisteel before they ventured inside. While Han stood warily guard behind the door, his blaster ready to kiss any unexpected visitor with stun rays, Luke settled into the pilot's chair and switched on the cockpit systems, running them on the reserve battery so they wouldn't alert anybody by firing the engines. "Where's the number?" Luke demanded as the console projected a suave menu screen up in front of his face.

Han dug a crumpled piece of flimsy out of his pocket and tossed it at the kid. "Hurry up," he warned.

Luke nodded tersely as he began hunting through the menus for the correct system.

"You remember how to hack in, right?"

"Yes," Luke snapped irritably, still flipping through links.

Han shifted and worked his tongue nervously around his teeth, waiting and watching. "So what did you do to that guard outside?" he finally said again.

"It's a Jedi mind trick," Luke said with a shrug. "Hah! I got it!"

Han spared a glance over his shoulder. "Quick," he urged. "We got maybe another hour and fifteen."


	27. Civil Disobedience

Author's Note: Hey all! Sorry about the long delay…holidays, vacation, long naps following huge meals, you know how it goes. At any rate, I have finally gotten more story written for all of you who are reading this. Hope that you enjoy reading as much as I enjoy writing! Kindly tell me what you think, if you have time; just be sure to do it politely, whether you like it or not. Thanks! Reviews are a great encouragement and make it that much more fun to write for you guys. And now…your last update of 2006. drumroll…

_Alderaan…_

"And where was the first battle of the Clone Wars fought?"

"Geonosis."

Keno Ly'Laka, Ph.D, smiled back in response to his student's instant, firm answer, and switched off his holoprojector as a reward. "Excellent, Princess. I think that will be all for today."

On the other side of the datapad-littered table, Princess Leia flashed him the bright girlish smile that was only too rare from such a remarkably grown-up child as she was. Although, Dr. Ly'Laka found himself forced to admit more and more these days that she was not so much the child anymore—nearly fourteen, in fact. Her progress was indeed impressive for one so young, and Ly'Laka was never a more enthusiastic conversationalist than when his brilliant young protégé was the topic…but it warmed him nonetheless when the regal airs slipped for a moment and revealed the child's spirit still hiding playfully beneath. Of course, being her professor, he could hardly say as much.

"Remember, Princess," he continued sternly, "I expect your paper on the Naboo Crisis tomorrow morning."

She nodded. "I've nearly finished, except for talking to Daddy about it."

"Make sure you do that today," he cautioned her.

She nodded, piling her schoolwork into a neat pile atop the table. "I'll go now."

Ly'Laka beamed at her as she tripped off gracefully. Quite the prodigy, young Leia. She'd certainly do her father proud when she was a little older.

…

"Daddy?" Leia called softly through the intercom, rapping lightly on the door to her father's office. One of her not-infrequent premonitions suddenly struck her, and enabled her not to jump with surprise when the door suddenly whisked open beneath her tentative touch. Bail Organa strode quickly through, shrugging his outer robe into better position.

"Leia?" He paused his brisk feet for a moment. "What is it?"

"I was wondering when you would have time for me to ask you about my paper for Galactic Politics," she answered quickly. "Should I come back?" He was obviously in a hurry about something.

"No, no—I only need to go speak with the moff for a few minutes, just a minor conflict with customs regulations. You can wait in my office. I'll be back shortly." He smiled at her and headed rapidly away down the hall. She watched for a second, and then went in, settling into a guest chair to wait for him.

Five minutes later, the com system unexpectedly twittered, and the screen projected up out of the desk, displaying the message urgent live: encryption three.

Normally, Leia wouldn't have touched her father's com system, knowing that it was the height of rudeness and impropriety to do so. But her father might not be back in time to take the call—after all, it said it was "urgent live," meaning someone was waiting on the other end to talk to him, and Encryption 3 meant it was someone important—someone with military equipment.

She'd suspected for a long time that her father was involved with the Rebel Alliance. This might be an Alliance contact. He would not want to miss this call.

She lowered her eyebrows decisively and moved around the desk to her father's office chair, punching the "accept call" button. Just as they should, she heard low hums and clicks as the office sealed up the security systems, ensuring that no one else would hear the secret communication. She watched a bit nervously as the projector finally lit up…

And then she started as a fairly familiar face appeared in holographic blue tinted color. It was a boy—she was sure she'd seen him before! He had the same face as Han's younger brother Luke—the two boys could have been twins—but this boy had blonde hair, blue eyes.

"Princess Leia?" the boy asked quizzically.

It was Luke Solo, all right. She remembered his voice.

"Yes," she said regally, trying to regain her bearings. "Aren't you Luke Solo?"

He frowned strangely, as though the question confused him. Then suddenly he got a look of dawning comprehension. "Ah—yeah, yeah I am," he stammered.

Leia narrowed her eyes, and was about to fire off a suspicious retort, but Luke beat her to it. "Is Senator Organa there?" he asked anxiously.

"Why do you want to talk to him?" Leia demanded.

"I have to tell him something important," Luke insisted. Even through the Holonet static fuzz, she could hear the strong note of alarm in his voice, and she could definitely see stress in the way he held himself.

"How do I know you're Luke Solo?" Leia countered, not ready to divulge any possibly important information without proof.

Luke glared at her, and turned around from the com unit on his end. "Han?" she thought she heard him call.

She must have been right, because a second later Han Solo's face joined Luke's. "Heya, Your Princessness," he said with a tight grin. "Remember that time ya snuck up on me in my ship?"

"What's your ship's name?" she demanded.

"The _Millennium Falcon_, 'course."

"All right, I believe you," she admitted. Han disappeared from the image, leaving Luke, who still looked incredibly nervous. "What do you want to tell my father?"

"Can't I talk to him?"

"He's not available," she said. "He's at a meeting."

Luke blew an exasperated breath, and looked away uneasily. "Look—I'll tell you if you promise not to tell anybody else but Senator Organa," he said. "You can't tell anybody else, or I swear, my father will kill me."

He sounded dangerously serious. "Okay," Leia said somberly. "I promise."

Luke took another second before he rushed into his message. "Tell him that Luke called from Bast Castle," he said. "Tell him that Darth Vader knows about the astromech droid and that he got one of the recordings. In about two days, he's going to know that Senator Organa sent the astromech. Make sure you tell your father all of that!"

Leia paled at the mysterious message. "Astromech? Darth _Vader_?" Her brain spun in a dazed whirl. "But—but—no, wait—"

She wasn't fast enough. Luke gave her a last desperate glance and cut the connection.

Leia sat stunned, staring the blank holoprojector space. It was many minutes before she recruited enough presence of mind to return the office to normal security settings. But as soon as the doors unlocked again, her father stormed through, looking horribly anxious and angry. He marched around the desk to her and ordered the security back on at full strength before commencing to scold.

"Why did you have this office locked down?" he demanded. "You are not to access my systems, I have told you this!"

"I—I—" She had to look down before answering. "You got a call."

"An _urgent _call? And you answered it?" Her father's expression was a curious mixture of incredulity and fury. "I've made it clear that that's prohibited! Leia—"

"It said urgent live encryption three," Leia went on. "It was Han and Luke Solo."

Her father suddenly seized her by the shoulders, and her emotions seized her at the same time. "Daddy, they were telling me awful things, about Darth Vader and an astromech and—and—"

"Leia," Bail cut in with a slow, deliberate voice. "Tell me exactly what they said."

"It was Luke," she said, breathing hard in the effort to suppress irrational sobs of even more irrational fright. "Mostly. He said that Darth Vader knows about the astromech droid and that he has a recording and that in two days he's going to know you sent the droid. Daddy—please, Daddy, what is he talking about?" Her voice rose up to a high pitch as she fought to retain control.

Bail rubbed her shoulders calmingly, but Leia was not fooled. She could tell that he was even more upset than _she_ was, and it only made her more frightened. "Did he say anything else?" he asked her gently. "Did he say where he was calling from?"

"I—I think he said—Bast. Bast Castle." She battled with a shudder.

Her father glanced away, breathing deeply, still squeezing her shoulders. "Two days—you're sure he said two days?"

"Yes, two days until Vader knows."

"Did he say anything else to you at all? Anything at all?"

"Just that I shouldn't tell anybody else about this but you," Leia whispered.

"That's it?"

She nodded, and began trembling. Leia didn't fear very many things, but dangerous things she didn't understand was a big one on the list. "Daddy, what's going on?" she pleaded.

Bail pulled her into a hug with a soothing smile. "It'll be fine, Leia. I'll explain it to you in a little while, but right now there's some things I need to do. Go back upstairs to your room. I'll talk to you at dinner." He smiled again, stroking her cheek, and Leia nodded. Although she knew her father was frightened and upset by the message she'd given him, he also seemed to know what he was doing, so she let herself be reassured.

"Okay," she nodded.

"Are you all right?" he asked with a frown.

Leia nodded bravely, and let her father usher her out of his office. Slowly she made her way through the palace back to her room. The Galactic Politics paper was far from her mind now; instead she tossed on her bed, mulling over the short, disquieting conversation with Han and Luke Solo.

What had her father done with an astromech droid? Where had he sent it? What did it have to do with Darth Vader? Where and what was Bast Castle? And how in the Empire did Han and Luke Solo know all of this anyway?

_Maybe they're Rebel spies_, she mused. _Maybe they were talking in some sort of verbal code_. She'd heard about those from one of her professors, though she couldn't remember which one. Maybe "Darth Vader" meant something entirely different to her father than she thought it meant. That might be it…

But why would a boy no older than she was be spying on the Empire? That didn't make sense—it wasn't as if a boy would somehow blend in among bands of tall armored stormtroopers. Leia almost giggled at the image of a short, awkward figure stumbling around in a heavy, way-outsized suit of Imperial armor, running into doorframes and Navy officers.

Besides, he'd said that his father would kill him if she told anybody else, and it didn't make sense that both he and his father would be spying together or something—

_Wait just a second! Han and Luke Solo are _orphans!

Leia jumped up from her bed and began to pace in agitation across the room at this new realization. He'd said his father would kill him. That meant that Mr. Solo, whoever he was, was _not _dead. Han and Luke Solo had _lied_ when they were here on Alderaan. They'd lied to her and to her father. What else might they have lied about? Maybe they didn't even have any relatives in the Dantooine refugee projects—maybe they were _Imperial _spies. What other explanations were there for Luke's odd disappearance during the month that Han had been staying at the palace? And just why had Han been staying at the palace anyway? Come to think of it, Leia couldn't remember if anyone had ever really given an explanation.

But the biggest question of all…how would these two boys, whom she saw nearly every night in her dreams, know as much as they did about Darth Vader? His very name set Leia to shuddering, conjuring up images from her nightmares and a nerve-wracking conversation in a moonlit garden. She didn't understand why he would be involved with two boys any more than she'd understood why he would care to ask _her_ about her nightmares. It frightened her, because it wasn't the way a Sith lord ought to behave, and Leia did not like it when things were both unpredictable and dangerous.

With effort she forced her questions and fears to subside, rebuilding her mind's familiar strength and structure. She didn't doubt that her father knew what was happening. Leia would just have to make him tell her. The best way to do that would be to catch him off-guard, and Luke's incongruous comment about his father was a conversation topic guaranteed to do the trick.

…

Bail's carefully controlled façade collapsed spectacularly in Leia's wake. Dear _Force_, what was he going to do?

He sealed his office's security and fell back in his seat with a groan, massaging his temples in the effort to think more clearly. He'd been so sure that he had managed to dissuade Han Solo from any foolhardy rescue attempts…but apparently the Corellian's character was of sterling quality beneath the badly tarnished exterior, and Bail hadn't given Solo's loyalty nearly enough credit. He couldn't guess how the young man had managed it, but by some means it seemed Han had unearthed Luke's location and gotten to him.

What was happening now, Bail couldn't say. Had Han and Luke called him from a stolen Imperial Navy ship? Had they escaped Vader? No, he quickly reminded himself, that couldn't be—according to Leia Luke had claimed to be calling from Bast Castle. That was one of Vader's private holdings, if memory served him correctly. Surely the boys had not taken valuable time out of an escape attempt to send him warning!

Yet Leia had also said the call came noted as an Encryption 3. Han and Luke must have called from an Imperial Navy ship, because in order to send something Encryption 3 one had to have military-grade communication arrays. The boys would not have been able to access such communication systems in the castle; most likely that would require infiltrating the control room of the building, which was sure to be heavily guarded if Bail knew _anything_ about Darth Vader. Although conceivably the son of Darth Vader might be given access, it was impossible that Luke would be allowed to transmit anything without surveillance. Such a warning would never have been permitted.

Bail groaned and shoved the details aside. It didn't matter, in the end. What mattered was that in two days Darth Vader would know that he, Bail Organa, knew of Luke's existence, and knew of the relationship between the Sith and the boy. For, of course, Vader must have discovered the recording in Han's possession; the one that Bail had edited. The last five months had passed by without a single mention of Luke Skywalker, official or otherwise; Vader was obviously hiding the young one, and he would not risk any leaks of information.

Bail was very, very short of time. Two days was not long. Yet it should be plenty of time for Breha and Leia to disappear into safety—and Bail knew exactly the being they should be sent to. Flooded with the determined instinct to protect his family, the senator switched on the com system.

_The planet Vjun…_

Han breathed his tension out in a deep sigh as the turbolift doors sealed safely behind his back and the car began to rise smoothly. Luke slumped against the wall, but he had a big grin on his face. "We did it," he said.

"You're krethin' right we did," Han nodded. He fiddled with the compact blaster in his hands, and glanced up at the center of the lift ceiling, where the security sensors had been ten seconds ago and where a broad, blackened, sparking hole now gaped. It was only the second security array they'd had to blast, the other being the sensors in the turbolift down. Han's careful examination of the castle floor plans had mapped them an invisible route everywhere else. A few more minutes, and they'd of gotten clean away with their little operation, with nearly a quarter hour to spare.

The turbolift door slid open at the top level of the castle, revealing the well-patrolled security checkpoint up ahead. The stormtroopers started as they recognized the two boys, and blasters snapped up. "Your unsupervised presence outside the checkpoint is not authorized, repeat, _not_ authorized," barked the captain.

Luke paid the blasters no mind and moved quickly forward. "You're going to let us back inside," he said.

The stormtroopers stopped in their tracks, lowering their blasters dreamily. "I'm…going to let you back inside," the captain murmured, sounding much less like a drill sergeant.

The stormtroopers drifted apart as Han and Luke bypassed the biometric scanner and opened the vault-like door. Luke turned around once more. "You're going to forget we were here," he said, more forcefully than before.

"You were never here," agreed the captain. Luke nodded at them, and then they were both back inside the checkpoint and the door had resealed and reset behind them.

Han grinned at Luke, collected the kid's blaster, and tossed both guns down the nearest trash chute. "Home free, kid," he said. The two of them sauntered lightly down the halls and back into Vader's personal wing without incident.


	28. Arrivals and Departures

Author's Note: Hello! Happy 2007! I apologize for my rather long absence. I've been pretty busy with school and all that attends and haven't had very much time to write at all. Thanks to all who reviewed me last chapter; sorry if I didn't respond to you. Things got rather muddled after awhile as my email reply wasn't working very swiftly. Anyway, here at last is an update for all of you who are reading…hope you enjoy it. There are a couple new characters you might recognize…As always, the reviews are welcome and enjoyed!

_On Alderaan…_

Dinner was normally at the same hour every day in Leia's life, more or less, with occasional variations depending on her father's work or her mother's. Most days they ate at eighteen-hundred; sometimes a half hour earlier or later, and on rare occasions an entire hour earlier. Never, however, did the steward call them to dinner _three hours _late.

Leia did not like it.

Her suspicion was in no way eased when, as she started to take the route to the usual dining room, the steward appeared to redirect her to her father's private apartments. The complement of armed guards standing watch outside the apartments didn't help either. They allowed her through the sealed doors, but she could see that the safeties had been taken off of their blasters. These were no ceremonial guards. Leia crept nervously through, leaving the steward outside, and went slowly down the hall, looking around. She couldn't see anyone…

"Leia? Leia, this room." Leia bounded back a few steps and opened the appropriate door, the one to the family sitting room.

As soon as she was inside, the door sealed behind her, and Leia realized three things. First, there was no table set for dinner. Secondly, there was a fourth person in the room, sitting across from her father on the couches, with a hood over his face. And thirdly—if she remembered correctly, there were no security devices in this room.

Her mother looked up at her, and Leia felt herself freeze at the distress she glimpsed behind Breha's smile.

"Come sit down," her mother said gently. "We have…an important guest."

Leia sat down, between her parents, the stranger sitting on the opposite couch.

"Who is he?" she demanded. Something was wrong—something was so wrong that it was throwing her entire day askew. She was deathly afraid that it might, in fact, be about to throw her _life_ askew. This was no time to stand on courteous ceremony.

She was a little surprised when the stranger took no offense. The stranger glanced up at Bail, and her father nodded; the stranger reached up and lowered his hood. Given the tense atmosphere in the room, Leia had expected an extremely dramatic moment…

But there was no drama. Curiously, she stared at the strange man opposite her on the couch. He had keen brown eyes—eyes, Leia thought, that had seen more than his fairly young face should have—and brown hair. He was neither especially ugly nor particularly handsome, and he seemed to be of average height. The only slightly odd thing about him was a thin streak of blonde on one side of his head, relieving the dark brown. She had never seen him before, whether personally or in the news.

"Hello, Princess Leia," he said, nodding and extending his hand. She took it warily as he continued, "My name is Ferus Olin."

Leia frowned. She'd never heard the name, either. "Why are you here?" she demanded.

Her father answered instead. "Leia, Master Olin is a Jedi."

Her brown eyes suddenly widened. Leia wanted to jump up out of her seat and examine the guest more closely—this was a Jedi? Leia'd never seen one. She couldn't tell from here that there was anything special about him. But if her Galactic Politics professor was to be believed, this Ferus could do all sorts of magical, impossible things!

Well, that explained why they were here in the sitting room, beyond the reach of the security devices. Obviously, her father couldn't let the Empire learn that he was protecting a Jedi. But it didn't explain why they hadn't had dinner three hours ago. And it didn't explain why Ferus Olin was here.

"Daddy, _why_ is he here?" she insisted, tearing her eyes off the curiosity of the Jedi and focusing sternly on her father.

"Leia, do you remember the message you received for me this afternoon?" Bail asked her. Leia nodded immediately. As if she could forget!

"Leia, we can't tell you everything right now," her mother cut into the conversation. "But Alderaan soon will not be safe for you. Master Olin is going to take you to someone he and we both know, who will keep you safe until you can return to Alderaan."

Leia drew in a shaky breath, her head twisting back and forth between mother and father. "Why can't I stay?" she managed to get out after a while.

"Leia, we can't tell you," her father said firmly.

"Yes, you can!" she shouted suddenly. She jumped to her feet, breathing hard—the room was spinning around, she was so angry and upset—

Then firm hands settled on her shoulders, and a cool breeze seemed to blow through the recesses of her mind. When her vision cleared she was sitting heavily on the couch again, staring directly into the concerned brown eyes of Master Olin, who was leaning over her, gripping her shoulders. He straightened, leaving one hand on her shoulder.

"She'll be fine, Senator," he said. Leia glanced aside; her father was holding her hand worriedly. "That's not uncommon, given such sensitivity." His eyes took on a somewhat distant look. "Anakin Skywalker had such moments rather frequently, as I recall."

Her father stiffened beside her. "Well, my daughter's hardly Anakin Skywalker," he said tersely. Leia frowned, trying to remember whether she'd ever heard the name Anakin Skywalker before. It seemed as though it ought to be familiar to her…And what did they mean, sensitivity?

Master Olin had stiffened too. "Perhaps not, but as far as our records go—or went—he's the only other being to register so highly. I'd just as soon take advantage of what precedent I have to work with."

Register? Records? What were they _talking _about? The questions floated through her mind, dim, distant.

"Well," her father all but retorted, "I'd rather you didn't."

Master Olin gave a rather world-weary sigh. "Senator, by your own admonition, we don't have time to waste."

Her father nodded. "True." He turned back to Leia, and Leia felt her stomach sink as her mother put an arm around her.

"Do you feel alright?" Bail asked anxiously.

She nodded wearily. "Why do you never tell me anything?" she asked bleakly.

He gripped her hand tightly. "There are things, Leia, that you are happier not knowing too soon," he said finally. "Master Olin has been told all the answers that I can give you right now. You can ask him for them during your trip. In the meantime, we must get you away from Alderaan as quickly as possible. I don't want to risk anything I don't have to."

Leia did not miss the subtle tension between her parents that suddenly arose at those words, but she didn't understand it.

"Shaya is upstairs packing what you will need," her father continued. "You'll want to run up and change, princess."

Her mother stood and walked back up to the bedroom with Leia. The young princess of Alderaan waited numbly on top of her bed, listening to the absurd bustling of her maid Shaya and her mother through the closet. In a few moments her mother emerged with what might have to be considered the dregs of Leia's elaborate wardrobe—just a plain, fitted jumpsuit and the boots she wore whenever she rode her speeder or went for a hike or some other grueling activity that tended to involve copious quantities of dirt. It didn't take very long to make the costume switch. After that her hair came down out of its stifling buns and went into a simple long braid.

"There," Breha said, examining her from a few steps' distance, in a manner normally reserved for formal functions. "That should do."

Shaya came out of the closet with two bags, and they went back downstairs.

Her father was talking very earnestly with the Jedi when they entered the sitting room once more, both leaning forward on the couches, but the conversation came to a quick halt. Master Olin surveyed Leia, and looked as though he approved of her new appearance.

"That should do," Bail echoed his wife.

"Senator, my lady, the sooner we leave the better," Master Olin announced, standing briskly, shattering the brief lull mercilessly.

Bail nodded. Leia felt the numbness in her grow heavier. Her mother seized her in a tight hug. Leia could feel her trembling.

"Don't be afraid, Leia," Breha whispered fiercely. When her mother let go of her, Leia turned quietly to her father, her expression blank. It was though she was watching all of this from far away, like watching a show on holovid.

Bail swept her into an even tighter hug. He didn't say anything for a very long time; when his arms finally relaxed and she could see his face, Leia was shocked to see that her always-controlled politician father was crying.

"We love you," he told her. "We love you, princess. Never forget."

She nodded, tremulously. And then Master Olin had taken her by the hand. His hood was up again. "Let's go," he told her. Her father let her go.

"Take care of her," he told the Jedi forcefully.

Master Olin paused on their way to the back door. "With my life," he said finally.

The next several minutes were a blur to Leia. Master Olin led her quickly down halls and through chambers, down stairs, up stairs, and then they were in a hanger she'd never seen before, boarding a ship she'd never seen before. They went straight to the cockpit, and the Jedi sat her firmly in the seat next to him. "Strap in, Leia," he said.

Ten minutes later, Alderaan, her parents, and her life were lightyears away.

…

"The ship is out of system, senator," the steward of the palace reported over Bail's comlink. The senator gave a token response, and switched off the comlink.

"I wish you were with her," he said after a long silence.

Breha didn't look at him. She was staring out the holowindow of the sitting room. The streaks of tears remained, but her face was again set and controlled. "Never in a million millennia," she answered.

Bail drew in a shaky, sharp breath and sat down on the couch. "Breha, it would do far more for my peace of mind if you were gone."

"My place is with my husband, regardless of what happens. You may as well stop arguing."

"Breha…" He trailed off into a sigh. "I'm not going to convince you, am I?"

"No." Still she refused to turn.

"What about Leia?"

"Leia is safe."

"Safe, maybe, but how happy do you think she'll be if she loses both her parents?"

"We've discussed this. The man might be second-in-command of the Empire, but he doesn't have the footing he needs to kill either you or me."

"Not overtly, no," Bail shot back. "But you well know Vader has plenty of capacity to induce unfortunate accidents."

"And you well know he's not the type to attack from behind at night," Breha shrugged it off.

"Neither of us knows what he may or may not do," Bail muttered. "You remember, I hope, the kind of misguided lengths he's gone to before for the sake of his family. What if he decides he can risk the Emperor's suspicion?"

Breha finally turned to him with a wry smile. "He'll lose his gamble. And that, Bail, would be a price well worth paying."

"You realize that might put others at risk, don't you? What if the Emperor were to discover Luke? Breha, in the unlikely event that Palpatine would see fit to destroy Vader, it would not be because he killed me or you. Only if Palpatine were to discover _why_ Vader killed _this_ particular senator might he be enraged enough to rid himself of his apprentice. Do you realize what that means for Luke? For the galaxy?"

Breha gave him a triumphant smile. "Yes, I do. And I'm sure Vader would realize that too. _That_, Bail, is why he can't touch either of us without entirely different grounds for doing so."

Bail sighed again. "All right, you win."

She came over and sat down beside him. "We'll get past this," she promised him. "We have another two days, perhaps up to four. Let's make sure he doesn't find those different grounds he's going to want so badly."

_Two days later…_

Darth Vader was, all things considered, inclined to be in one of his more pleasant moods. Despite his rather extended absence, made all the more difficult by the fact that a new admiral had arrived to command Fifth Fleet in the interim, affairs were actually proceeding quite satisfactorily. In fact, affairs were proceeding _outstandingly_, and had been even before his return to the Fleet.

Vader's latest admiral, rather than being a burden upon the Fleet and an irritant to himself, was proving a magnificent acquisition. Although quite a newly minted admiral, this new addition to the _Executor_'s bridge could have handled all of Fifth Fleet entirely on his own with no trouble. In fact, given a few more years of experience, Vader suspected the man—well, not quite a man—could likely handle _his_ job running the Navy. Yet somehow or other, the admiral had managed to fall out of the Emperor's favor; before Ozzel's death, he'd been on his disgraced way to a cheap assignment in the Unknown Regions; apparently, Palpatine had decided assignment to Lord Vader's fleet would be a preferable method for getting rid of the Chiss officer, reasoning he would go the way of the rest of Fifth Fleet's commanders. But so long as the admiral maintained his performance and manners, Vader could find no reasons for complaint.

Granted, the newly arrived Admiral Thrawn did have his idiosyncrasies, not the least of which was his fascination with art. The first time Vader had arrived in the command briefing room after his sojourn on Vjun, he had found it much…altered. Paintings hung on the walls, and the table had received a sort of lacquered patterning on its surface. The admiral's quarters had been even worse, transformed into a virtual art gallery…However, he had miraculously managed to reserve judgment until he could assess the admiral's performance. Between a round of beautifully handled war exercises and glowing reports from all his standing ship officers, Vader had decided that Thrawn's all-around brilliance more than compensated for his quirks.

At least, it had so far. The admiral had not, after all, been under observation long enough to tell whether the trend would continue. But he was off to a promising start, and thus already an improvement over his late and unlamented predecessors. And any sort of improvement in that area was most welcome to Darth Vader.

Had the matter of the recording from Solo's ship not been constantly on his mind, hanging as a dire threat over the fragile safety of his children, Vader would have been in something approaching an amiable mood. The idea that someone knew his secret—that someone had the power to reveal at least one of his children to Palpatine, and perhaps even all three—unnerved him to the core, not least because it gave that someone enormous power over him. One master was difficult enough to please and placate

But the time limit he had given his son was reached. Vader retreated into his chambers, and from there into his hyperbaric chamber, sealing it for total security and freedom from disruption. Soon he would at least know the identity of that someone. Decisively—for it required great strength to traverse the great distance between them—he reached along the lines of the bond between him and his child.

…

_Luke._

Luke jumped where he sat on the couch of the game room, dropping his holobook. It smacked squarely on Han's head, and he gave an indignant yell from where he lay sprawled out on the floor tinkering with something or other, but Luke didn't notice any of it.

_Luke, answer me_, a very familiar voice boomed through his head a second time.

He swallowed, shaky, and sent up a last prayer that Bail Organa had gotten their message and done something about it—because the senator was out of time.

_Father? _he answered, a bit tremulously.

_You have the information I require, I trust_, his father replied, with a hint of warning.

He clenched his teeth. _Yes, sir_.

_And?_

_Senator Organa gave it to him_, Luke answered. He trembled just a little as he felt his father scanning him, making sure that he was telling the truth.

_You are certain?_

_Yes. _

His father's tension seemed to back off a little. _Well done, my son_, he sent over their bond. He sounded pleased. _You did well to obey me._

Luke decided this probably wasn't the best time to elaborate on the other, not-so-obedient things he'd done. Instead he tried, _You won't hurt him, will you?_

What snippet of approval had entered his father's tone quickly vanished. _The fate of Senator Organa is not your concern, little one. I will deal with him as is necessary._

_But—Father, he helped me before—_

_It is not your concern. _

Luke gave it up. He'd just have to hope that what he'd already done for the senator would be enough. And that his father wouldn't kill _him_ when he found out… _Yes, sir_, he answered.


	29. Missing Pieces

Author's Note: Hey hey hey!!! Look who finally updated! Yes, I know, I've you readers in the lurch for so horribly long…All I can say is, school happens. Unfortunately, it's just going to keep happening until summer, so I'm afraid updates are back to being sporadic. I'll work on the story as time permits…But hey, the good news is, you get a really nice long update this time! Hopefully you'll all enjoy it…it took me a while to drum up the inspiration, but now I have a general idea of plot flow. Hopefully my efforts will not disappoint all you out there in reader land. Remember, reviews make the author's day and increase motivation to write. The more, the merrier… (yes, I know, cliché, bad writing, terribly sorry)

_Imperial City, Coruscant…_

The Emperor was not a man who worried. He was a man of power, of purpose, of confidence—decidedly not of worry. His lips curled at the very thought of such a patent weakness. The Darkness was not to be wielded by such scum as was susceptible to worry. Scheming minor politicians worried, helpless women worried. _He_, however, was the ruler of the known galaxy, not some pitiful elected underling; he was a Sith lord and a master of the darkness.

All that being said, he confessed reluctantly to himself that he was—at this particular moment—rather…concerned. Concerned enough, in fact, to have cancelled all business both public and covert for the day in order to meditate. However, the time-tried exercise had not availed him over the past several hours to divine any information. The fact did nothing to alleviate his concerns; in fact, it aggravated them, for if there was any single ability in the Force that the Emperor prided himself on, it was his skill in foreseeing. The Dark Side was being disturbingly uncooperative these days.

Equally disturbing was his apprentice's behavior. Over the past several months, ever since that disagreeable incident on Corellia, Vader had become increasingly erratic. Over the past nearly fourteen years, his apprentice had never ceased to be a source of at least minimal concern, but the one thing Vader had never failed to be was remarkably consistent. Temperamental? Of course. But as legendarily capricious as his apprentice's moods had always been, Vader's intelligence was admittedly a match for them. Not until this past year had he been anything but _painstakingly_ consistent.

The only thing Palpatine had known to drive Vader to such incredible irrationality before was a certain brunette Senator from Naboo. However, said Senator was long since removed from the arena of causes and effects. On _that_ point of interest Palpatine had made himself abundantly certain. The tomb on Naboo—officially cordoned off by Imperial honor guard—had long since been exhumed. He had not been satisfied until the woman's identity had been confirmed by multiple genetic tests, and until he had seen her corpse with his own eyes. Padmé Amidala _was dead._

But that left Palpatine to muse about what else in the galaxy could possibly have the same affect on Darth Vader as had Padmé. It was not a question the Emperor cared to consider.

Yet if Palpatine had not attained his lofty position by worrying, neither had he done it without great deliberations. His liking of the question was immaterial, for it was a grave question regardless, one which merited a considerable amount of meditation. Having arrived at that assessment this morning, the Emperor had promptly cancelled all business in order to apply himself to a thorough analysis of his apprentice's unsettling behavior. He now leaned back in his throne and brooded carefully.

Obviously, Padmé could not be what was causing Vader's current near-recklessness. However, love had not died with Padmé Amidala, much as the Sith Master might have wished. It was still present in the galaxy, and so long as it was present there was a fleeting chance that it could somehow affect his passionate apprentice.

However, Lord Vader had been badly…well, _burned _by his previous flirtations with love. Palpatine allowed himself a brief, twisted smile at the unavoidable pun. Yes, the events of Mustafar made it most unlikely that Vader would ever again seek out that which had proven to be such a great source of pain to him.

But love remained the only factor which Palpatine felt could account for Darth Vader's behavior. It was clearly not anger. He had thought that possibility through already. Had anger with _him_ been the source of Vader's unusual actions, Palpatine would have been able to point to a definite cause for that anger, some confrontation or grave disagreement between the two of them. And had Vader discovered some withheld secret—such as about Padmé's death—he would surely be plotting revenge; in that case, he would go to great lengths to keep his routines precisely in accordance with what Palpatine expected, in order to avert suspicion. And had someone else been the cause of Vader's great anger…well, that someone else surely would not have lasted this long.

No—these random absences and abrupt course changes and Fleet redeployments did not fit that picture painted by anger. Only the distasteful irrationality of love could be the source of this strange behavior. But this conclusion still left the Sith Lord with the vexing question of _what_ could have incited that most detestable emotion in his apprentice.

Irritated by his inability to solve the riddle, Palpatine rose testily from his throne and began to pace before the vast viewport. It was not, of course, a _real_ viewport, but when one was the ruler of the entire Galaxy, one had to make certain concessions if one was going to remain alive to enjoy that position.

That this love could be of a romantic nature was all but impossible. Firstly, the basis of his apprentice's great strength in the Dark Side was the pain he had endured at Mustafar, the greatest portion of which was Padmé's death. It was impossible for anyone else to take her place; that would uproot Vader's very nature, incite upheaval far too great to be concealed. Vader himself would certainly avoid it, if only for that reason. And a love any less deep than Padmé's would neither have this much affect on Vader nor even be likely to appeal to him. No. A romantic interest was certainly out of the question.

In fact—he smiled at the sudden spark of insight—for many of those same reasons, it was impossible that this love could be new. Love, plain and simple, was of the light side of the Force. And Vader understood on an instinctive level that the light in any form was a threat to his painstakingly established darkness. He was zealous in guarding against such threats…from the outside. What he was not likely to perceive as a threat would be one attacking from _within_. Yes…a scrap of the light might yet be preserved within Vader. In that case, the love that was now motivating his apprentice was in fact an old one, and one of some strength as well.

Palpatine's smile grew wider yet as he realized how few possible answers remained after that insight. There were very few people whom Vader—or, more appropriately, Anakin Skywalker—could be said to have loved. Palpatine could name but three—Shmi his mother, Padmé his wife, and Obi-Wan Kenobi. Padmé, of course, was absolutely beyond question departed from life. Palpatine had made himself no less sure of Shmi Skywalker's death. As for Obi-Wan, that friendship had long since mutated into a hate as strong as the love that had preceded it; and Palpatine had furthermore sensed the disturbance in the Force that had accompanied the Jedi Master's death nearly a year ago.

But…if none of those three, then what? Surely there had been no one else as close as those three; no one else who could have inspired a love powerful enough to be resurrected out of Anakin Skywalker's ashes thirteen, fourteen years later? Yet his reasoning had been sound. Someone else there must be. But _who?_

Yoda, no—no, the idea was laughable—Mace Windu was both dead and unlamented—Bail Organa? Well, perhaps there had been some marginal friendship between them in the days of the Republic, but nothing worth regarding. Furiously Palpatine paced back and forth before the viewport, flicking through lists of names associated with the identity of Anakin Skywalker and discarding each in turn. None of them fit the scenario confronting him. Anakin had been a man of few close friends, and Vader was even less sociable—he was missing something, something which ought to be glaringly obvious. In frustration he again considered those three people, again satisfying himself of their deaths. Obi-Wan, dead within the past year. Shmi, dead when Anakin was still a Padawan—Palpatine should certainly know. Padmé, dead nearly fourteen years ago. Obi-Wan, dead by his own lightsaber—Shmi, from the wounds inflicted by Tusken Raiders—Padmé, from…

And all of a sudden, there it was, like an explosion. Just as obvious as he'd been sure it was.

Padmé had been pregnant when she died. Was it…was it possible that the child might have survived its mother?

But surely not! The very idea was insult to himself! After all of the testing done on Padmé's exhumed body, surely the absence of the dead fetus would not have gone unnoticed! And surely he, he who was a Sith Master and had the entire power of the Dark Side at his disposal, could not have missed something so obvious! Why, any child of Anakin Skywalker's would be ablaze with Force sensitivity—to miss spotting such a naturally strong presence would be like not noticing as his palace exploded around him, like falling asleep in the middle of a duel, especially given how few other Force sensitives there remained to distract his attention! It was completely impossible that the child's survival would have escaped his notice.

Yet what other conclusion could there be? A child would certainly be a satisfactory explanation otherwise. Already holding a unique place close to Vader's heart, the little one's arrival would not upset his apprentice's foundations—but some irregularities of routine would almost surely occur, just as he now was seeing.

Well. He had certainly underestimated his apprentice if the man had been hiding a _child_ from him for the better part of a year. In fact, Palpatine found it hard to believe that his estimation of Vader could have been so far off. It suggested rather unpalatable things about his apprentice's capability for deceit—a Sith virtue the Emperor had heretofore felt to be painfully lacking in the man.

Deliberately Palpatine returned to his throne. Although it answered so many of his questions, he still could not accept that he would have missed the child's existence. This was not, therefore, a suspicion he would act upon until he had a great deal more proof. He would, moreover, have to proceed very, very carefully, given his newfound appreciation for Vader's talents. Under no circumstances did he want to alarm his apprentice. One misstep on his part, and the child—if it even existed—could be counted upon to vanish.

Also, there was another answer possible. Love might not be involved at all, despite his reasonings. The off chance remained that Vader had simply grown restless. After all, Anakin Skywalker had been as daring and reckless as they came. Perhaps some of that old youthful sentiment was simply rearing its head, inciting Vader against his usual careful behavior. It was a possibility, though it did not satisfy the Emperor's demanding logic as well as a child would.

Either way, a conversation with his potentially wayward apprentice was overdue. He immediately stretched his claw-like hands and punched the button, ordering his attendant to activate his communication suite's Holonet connection.

_His Majesty's starship _Executor_…_

Vader swept quickly into his communications suite, and keyed his personal code to activate the Holonet connection. It was high time that he spoke with his master. For one, he'd been absent from the Fleet for two weeks. While he did not technically_ need_ his master's permission to leave, it was not the safest of decisions to ignore the shrewd old man; placating would certainly be required. And besides that, he _would_ need to wring permission out of his master to investigate the transgressions of a certain Alderaanian senator. Remembering that, he took time to go back and activate all of the suite's security systems. He did not want anyone else to hear this conversation; no report must reach Bail Organa before he could arrive. If he was to get his hands on any incriminating evidence, he would _have_ to take the senator by surprise. The safety of his little ones was at stake.

To his surprise, when he turned back to the transmission deck, it was already activating. A call was incoming; he would have to see to this first before speaking with Palpatine. Spurred by the need to speak quickly with his master, Vader moved to intercept the call before it was shifted over to the bridge.

He was most surprised—and _not_ pleasantly—to see Palpatine's very distinctive visage flicker into being at its standard supersized ratios. He managed to recover quickly and kneel appropriately. "My master," he rumbled in a tone of careful neutrality and respect.

"Greetings, my apprentice," his master responded. Vader let himself relax, but just a very, very little—the man's tone was fairly amiable, and he appeared to be in one of his less diabolical moods. As always, the key word regarding Palpatine's moods was _appeared_—but Vader could manage his master's displeasure if Sidious was calm enough to don a companionable attitude. "I understand you have recently returned to the Fleet."

Definitely displeased. It was time to be a good little subordinate. _There was a time when you'd sooner have sliced off all your limbs yourself… _Vader pushed back the memory quickly. "I apologize for my sudden absence, my master," he offered quickly. "An unforeseen complication arose in the Unknown Regions projects. I was forced to attend to it personally."

Palpatine seemed to settle back tightly. "Unforeseen," he repeated, in a strange tone Vader did not recall hearing from him before. At least that ruled out its being a suspicious tone…

"Yes, my master. Several critical technological failures occurred at the Nirauan site. I was forced to divert the _Executor_ in order to provide emergency assistance. The details of the incident are returning via courier and should arrive at Imperial City shortly, barring further incident."

His master seemed to relax. "And the crisis has been properly resolved, I take it."

"Yes, my master. All necessary replacements have been made, as well as…appropriate _adjustments_ to the site personnel rosters. The project is proceeding according to schedule, as are the others."

"Excellent. And there are no such mishaps with Fifth Fleet, I hope."

"None, my master. However, I have had some reports of a small resistance fleet in the Adjaban sector. If these reports are verified, I intend to deploy four divisions into the Alderaan system, including _Executor_."

"I think you perhaps take this pathetic rebellion rather too seriously, Lord Vader," his master said, with the typical hint of amusement the subject of the Rebel Alliance always elicited from him.

"Forgive me, master, but I prefer to see it die pathetic than live and become a viable threat," Vader retorted, repeating their formulaic conversation on the topic.

"Very well, my apprentice," his master cackled lightly. Sensing the conversation's end, Vader reached to end the transmission, but unexpectedly Palpatine spoke once more.

"Ah, Lord Vader—there is one further question I wished to ask. I presume that you intend your usual retreat to Vjun next month?"

Had the respirator permitted, Vader would have skipped a breath. He was most grateful that it did not. "No, my master," he responded, carefully allowing a note of irritation into his answer. "I have had enough of unavoidable absences from the Fleet without adding to them voluntarily."

"Very well, then," his master answered after a considering moment. "Inform me if you discern the Alderaan deployment to be necessary."

"Of course, my master."

The transmission ended. Vader straightened slowly, turning the exchange over in his thoughts, not quite sure what to make of it.

Thanks to the faithful Baranne, he was thoroughly certain that Palpatine's inevitable investigations would not uncover anything suspicious in the fictitious "technological failures on the Unknown Regions project." In fact, by now, the only fictitious fragment of the story remaining was that Vader had ever been there. He had sent the agent to discreetly instigate those failures a week before leaving with Luke for Bast Castle; the _Executor_ had indeed been diverted to the Nirauan site project, but only Captain Piett had known that Darth Vader had not, in fact, been aboard the ship at that time. Nor would anybody else ever realize it, for as per the story the dark lord had been ensconced within his chambers the entire time, consulting privately with the captain whenever something required his attention; and there were no cameras or other security devices to betray him there. And to build further credibility, Vader had taken time to speak with the commander of the Nirauan site several times while at Bast Castle, and Baranne had seen to it that those recorded conversations found their way into the _Executor_'s encrypted files. If—no, when—Palpatine went hunting through the particulars, he would find nothing to suggest that Vader had been doing anything other than what his apprentice had reported.

Between that _very_ solidly built alibi and his announced intentions not to return to Bast Castle, Vader felt Palpatine's obvious suspicion would swiftly be averted. All he need do was take care to stay in line from now on out. Eventually, he could reintroduce those expected yearly retreats to Bast Castle and visit his children, and Palpatine should not find anything amiss.

Reflexively, he checked the shields he had constructed around his son's bright presence. No flaws, no mistakes. Good.

His fears averted for the moment, Vader's thoughts quickly re-centered on Bail Organa. Obviously, there were no credible reports of a nascent resistance fleet in the Adjaban sector—only the usual hoaxes perpetrated by lowlifes aiming for quick money. However, Baranne was a most capable man, most capable indeed…it had not taken long to piece together scraps of Rebel intelligence and develop the appearance of credible intelligence. And that was a perfectly sufficient excuse to deploy some of the fleet into the sector's central system…Alderaan.

He would, despite his rage, force himself to wait another two days before giving the order to deploy. But in two days, some more convenient intelligence would appear, reinforcing not only the nonexistent rebel fleet, but also suspicions that Bail Organa was organizing it. Two more days, and Vader could begin exacting his vengeance on the infuriating Senator of Alderaan…

_Roughly two days later…_

"Leia? Leia, cockpit!"

Somehow Jedi Olin never had trouble making his voice heard through all the ship corridors, despite the fact that he was in the cockpit and Leia was in her bunk on the opposite side of the ship with the door sealed. Quickly she jumped up from the bunk and tugged her boots on before going to the cockpit.

"Strap in," Ferus ordered, gesturing to the co-pilot's chair. "We're about to come out of hyperspace."

Eagerly Leia strapped on her crash webbing. She sat as straight in her seat as she could, watching the swirling, exploding light of hyperspace for her first sight of Dagobah…

The wildly twisting light seemed to stiffen, untwist, straighten, and finally in a flash shrank back into diamond pinpoints against the black cloak of realspace. And as the stars shrank, the orb of Dagobah ballooned up ahead, swelling until it filled the cockpit viewport.

Leia stared at it.

"It's…cloudy," she finally commented.

"That it is," agreed Ferus, checking all the controls on the board as he brought their ship into orbit. "Most of it's a swamp."

Leia's eyes widened in horror, but she didn't interrupt Ferus with her protestations. He was busy with the communications terminal, punching in numbers and codes, so Leia saved her complaints. He'd only said _most_, after all. Most likely they'd be going to some sort of reclaimed settlement on better ground. That must be it.

Minutes passed, and eventually the Jedi's frustration became evident in the stiff way he punched at the com buttons. She didn't know what language he was muttering in, but it didn't sound particularly nice.

"The clouds must be interfering with the signals," he finally announced, giving up the battle. "We'll just have to go on down planetside."

Leia nodded and watched him punch in coordinates. Slowly the ship swooped down out of orbit, and into the thick banks of clouds. It didn't take long for Leia to be extremely nervous that they would crash into something…and noticing that Ferus was flying the ship with his eyes closed did nothing to assuage her growing anxiety. Then, out of the blue, the repulsors hummed, the ship gave a definite _thud_, and the engines cycled down.

Ferus finally opened his eyes and grinned at Leia, as if he'd known exactly what she'd been thinking the entire ride down. "Grab your coat and pack," he told her. "Meet me at the ramp."

Leia unstrapped and went back to her cabin. Ferus was waiting for her at the top of ramp when she came out, with his own coat and backpack. He gave her another grin and led her down the ramp into the mist. Leia paused at the bottom, and then slowly set one booted foot onto the surface of Dagobah with a very wet and slimy _squelch_.

_I do _not_ like Dagobah_, she promptly thought. She tried to console herself with the thought that they couldn't be far from where this Jedi Master lived. It was sure to be dry and civilized inside there. So she followed Ferus bravely forward into the swamp.

"Keep to the right, Leia," he called back. "Next to the trees."

Leia stopped, and frowned into the heavy mist at her left. "Why?" she asked warily.

"Just trust me."

A few steps later, the mist shifted enough that Leia could see they were threading down a narrow path beside a very slimy primeval lake and a bank of tall, serpentine swamp trees. A huge fin sliced ominously through the water; the princess shivered as the mist hid the lake again from her view. She followed Ferus carefully, keeping as close to the tree trunks as she could possibly manage.

Before long, they began to leave the mist behind, and Leia could see that it was hovering mostly over that lake. Ahead of them, the swamp strengthened into great intertwined trees and spongy mud and plant debris. Leia couldn't see any sign of life—well, not sentient life, anyway. There were plenty of _other_ varieties crawling and slinking around which the princess in her felt much better ignoring than looking for…

Then, all of a sudden, a domed little hut appeared as they finished circling a particularly enormous tree. _Oh, how cute_, she thought.

Then Ferus began heading straight for the derelict door at its front, and Leia felt her stomach sink clear to the planet core. No way. No way was this where she was supposed to be living now. No, no way…

Oh, yes way. Ferus came up to the door and rapped on it firmly. Leia waited behind him, quite horrified, hoping beyond hope that this was just a satellite maintenance shed or something.

No one answered. There was no light in any of the windows. Well, _that_ was good news—that must mean they'd have to find somewhere else to—

"Not good," Ferus muttered. He made a movement towards his belt…

Leia leaped at a sudden, sharp _snap-hiss_, and at the sight of a brilliant blue shaft of light sprouting out of Ferus' hand. The Jedi made a swipe at the door with the blue blade of light, and the paltry thing immediately clattered off its hinges. Extinguishing the light-sword as abruptly as he'd turned it on, Ferus ducked down and moved inside the little hut. Leia followed shakily.

Inside, she found a shockingly primitive miniature house. The rough bed and table, the crude utensils in the tiny kitchen…everything looked as though it had been hand-fashioned by a pigmy barbarian. Ferus took one look around the cobwebbed room, pulled up a handful of spongy moss that had begun to grow in patches across the floor, and sank down on the rickety bed with a stunned expression.

"He's…gone," the Jedi murmured.

Leia whipped her head around from her inspection of the little fireplace. "Who's gone?"

Silence reigned for several minutes, until Leia could bear her mounting nervousness no more. "What's going on?" she demanded.

Ferus heaved a distraught sigh. "Leia, I honestly have no idea. Master Yoda was supposed to be here."

Leia looked around the miniature house with a frown. "This is a Jedi Master's home?"

Ferus shot a slight reproving glance at her. "The greatest Jedi Master," he corrected. "Master Yoda has been a Jedi for almost as long as the Republic existed."

Leia glared at him. _That_ was positively impossible, but she didn't yet feel comfortable enough with the Jedi to inform him of it. "So…where is he?" she asked.

"I don't know," Ferus murmured. "He's been living here on Dagobah ever since the rise of the Empire. Your father spoke to him not that long ago. I don't know where he's gone. Perhaps he's passed on into the Force…"

"You mean…you think that he's died?"

Ferus shrugged helplessly. "I can't believe that I wouldn't have sensed that," he muttered to himself. The silence resumed for a few minutes.

"I'm going to meditate," Ferus announced finally. Without further comment or explanation, the Jedi drew himself up cross-legged on the bed, hands on his knees, head bowed and eyes closed.

And stayed there. And stayed there…

After about ten minutes, Leia sank down onto the dirt-and-moss floor with a sigh to wait until the Jedi finished whatever he was—or more apparently _wasn't_—doing.

She _really_ didn't like Dagobah.

_Some days' hyperspace journey away, in the Alderaan system…_

Bail Organa was making a very concerted effort to at least _taste_ the dinner he was pretending to relish. Unfortunately, both the present company and that which he expected shortly made this a difficult enterprise. He had not been able to avoid a courtesy lunch with Moff Wessel of the Immalia Sector, who was vacationing briefly on planet—which would have been a sufficiently unpleasant experience in and of itself. But far more ominous and potentially unpleasant was the doubtless impending arrival of a certain Dark Lord of the Sith. Between this double-pronged Imperial threat, it was a wonder he could still do any work at all, for his mind was either tied up with placating the Moff or feverishly developing possible plans for handling Vader—if indeed any handling was to be done on his part.

The ultimate outline of their scheme had been Bail's brainchild, though Breha had been the one to refine it into something that might work. Their chances were painfully doubtful at best; the very idea of the reckless audacity he was about to engage in had been turning his stomach for the past several days… There might not be a better alternative, but that did not assuage the senator's anxiety. It was unlike anything he'd ever tried before, unequalled in his history for brazenness and danger, even including the events of Order 66 and its painful aftermath…

In a way, it was almost a relief when his aide interrupted Wessel's lengthy loyalist discourse on the benefits of pseudo-military government and the apparently innumerable shortcomings of the Senate.

"Your Excellency, I apologize for disturbing you," the aide whispered, his voice shivering, "but four Imperial Navy divisions have just arrived in-system. Lord Vader's is approaching and due for imminent arrival at the palace."

The irritation of the luncheon and the anxiety of the wait were both over. His equanimity was suddenly restored. Bail stood smoothly.

"My apologies, Governor," he said to the ruffled Moff. "But I'm afraid some rather urgent business has come up. I beg to take my leave." And with that the Senator turned and left the lunch terrace in full command of his poise, straightening his robes, and leaving Wessel sputtering in his wake.

By the time Bail reached the hangar, Breha was already waiting for him, no sign of anxiousness betraying itself on her handsome features. "How was lunch, dear?" she asked mildly.

Bail blew out an irritated breath and smiled a little, nervously, trying to play along with this attempt at humor. "I learned the most remarkable things about my occupation from Moff Wessel, darling," he responded lightly. "I fear I've only just realized what a treacherous crime against sentient rights I've committed in being a senator."

Both of them drew in a deep breath as a tri-fin Imperial shuttle made its appearance on the horizon, and there was no more conversation as the craft touched down on the landing pad. The ominous ring of footsteps and hiss of respirator were heard even before the ramp had completely extended. In another moment, Vader stalked out into the hangar and wasted no time making a beeline for the Organas. Bail swallowed covertly. The man's anger was ringing through the flooring with every step.

"Welcome, Lord Vader," he said, summoning a pleasant yet mildly curious smile. "I admit your arrival is something of a surprise. I had heard no reports of conflict in our sector."

Vader stopped in front of him, glaring down from his superior height—at least, he must be glaring behind that hideous mask. Behind the dark lord a horde of stormtroopers poured out of the shuttle, and not far behind them several uniformed intelligence officers and a civilian adjunct agent with grey eyes and a thin scar. Vader gestured them forward into the palace with a sharp wave of one hand; Bail quickly gestured his security guards to stand down before someone got shot.

"Certain reports have come to my attention regarding your activities, Senator," Vader announced coldly, "as well as reports of insurrectionist gatherings. Accordingly my men will be conducting a thorough investigation of your records."

Bail didn't hesitate. "I can assure you, I and my family remain loyal supporters of His Majesty," the senator lied smoothly. "We will facilitate your search in any way possible. I'll have my aides provide you with all my passcodes."

He could sense a sudden new tension in the dark lord. His willing compliance had caught Vader entirely off guard. Good.

"Very well," Vader answered after a pause. "My divisions will be based in the Alderaan system until further notice. It would be wise of you to issue warnings to that effect, Senator, for your sake. I would hate to see any _incidents_."

Bail nodded briskly. "Of course. We have the utmost respect for the Imperial Navy. I'll have Planetary Control contact your officers and establish an appropriate cordon immediately." He gestured an aide to get on the task, and turned back to Vader. "Are there any other immediate requirements that you have, my lord?"

Vader paused again, his gaze resting with new wariness on the senator. "Not at the moment," he answered at length.

"If any additional needs should arise, or if there is anything else I can do to facilitate your investigation, I'll see to it as swiftly as possible," Bail promised.

Vader's response dripped with more threat than the armed divisions overhead. "Your hospitality and cooperation, Senator, you may be sure are _most _appreciated." The dark lord swept past him into the palace.

Beside him, Breha gripped his hand. "Here we go," she murmured softly.

"Breha, I wish to the Force you were gone from here," he sighed.

"Stop worrying," she murmured. "One step at a time, and we _can_ succeed."

Bail stared bleakly at Vader's now-distant form. "I pray you're right."


	30. A Proposition with an Unexpected Ring

Author's Note: Well, aren't you all proud of me! Look how fast I got this new section written for you! What can I say, inspiration strikes. I hope this chapter doesn't disappoint. Remember, reviews lead to inspiration leads to quicker updates. And I do mean that, since I write my plot as I go, some of the things in this chapter resulted from ideas a few of you reviewers stuck out there. That's not a promise that I'll incorporate every suggestion, but hey, you make your case convincing or interesting enough, it might stick itself in my head. :P So there's some extra incentive for you all to review me. (I'm thinking hard of persuasive strategies, in case you can't tell) Anyhow, even if you don't review, thanks to everyone who reads! Enjoy the next chapter!

…

Twenty-four hours and one full-scale crash investigation later, Bail Organa remained pristinely innocent. Vader's initial, unwelcome impression from their first conversation had been all too accurate—someone had warned Senator Organa. And well in advance, too, for not only had any compromising information been destroyed, there were not even any hints that such destruction had taken place. Most tellingly of all, young Princess Leia had vanished into thin air.

Alderaan, like Corellia and Mustafar, had left Darth Vader with _nothing_.

His resultant rage had already claimed the lives of two Imperial investigators and one overbold Alderaanian palace guard.

To be perfectly honest, the greatest part of the dark lord's fury was fueled not by frustration, but by a deep, black ocean of fear. Fear for Luke, for Sara and Sandra, for his own security. So long as Organa lived on in safety, everything that Vader most treasured remained in mortal peril. And besides Organa's threat, there was also the matter of that informant who had warned him. Vader suffered few delusions—it had either been that _blasted _Han Solo, or it had been his own son. In fact, it had likely been both of them. Vader hoped so for Luke's sake, because if it was entirely Solo's doing, the Corellian's chances of survival were so slim was to be nonexistent.

He pushed all reflections on the two boys aside. He would deal with the wayward children in time. First he must deal with Organa and remove this threat to his children by any means necessary. In the end, he suspected that he would be forced to invent the damning evidence himself in order to have Organa arrested and executed posthaste; he had already ordered Baranne to join him in system with that plot in view. But before taking any other steps, it would be prudent to investigate his remaining options. A rendezvous with the Senator was in order.

Vader reached for his comlink.

…

Bail Organa drew in a deep breath. Five minutes ago Vader had contacted him, curtly demanding an immediate private meeting in the palace's safe room. He had accordingly come to the security-device-free family sitting chamber.

Almost show time. Feverishly the senator rehearsed his and Breha's plan. This would have to be the most convincing speech of his life in order to work. Not a single misstep could be made—

The door hissed open, admitting the distinctive hulking form of Darth Vader. Bail stood quickly with a welcoming nod and the least sincere smile of his life. "Lord Vader," he said. "What can I do for you?"

"You may dispense with the pleasantries, senator," Vader snapped back. "There are no cameras to appreciate them. I trust you understand why I am here."

The Sith was being even more forcefully blunt than normal. He was going to have his hands full trying to keep the conversation from running over him roughshod. Bail let the smile vanish; there was no point maintaining it. "I suspect it has something to do with an astromech," he conceded. Somehow he kept his fingers from shaking. For all he knew, Vader might have brought a recording device in with him to bait him into self-condemnation. He was taking a great risk—but he reminded himself that he still had the bank of recordings Artoo had transmitted safely hidden away. They were all that stood between him and Vader's wrath.

"Quite correct," Vader hissed. "Tell me, Organa, what possible excuse you can contrive for infiltrating my personal quarters and spying on _my son_."

Bail felt himself relax. Vader had no recording devices with him; he would not have spoken of Luke if he had.

"I was simply concerned for the boy's safety," he answered truthfully. "Forgive me, my lord, but you do not have the best of reputations when it comes to caring for children."

"Your _concerns_ are irrelevant," Vader retorted. "The child is _my_ concern, and only mine. You are guilty of treachery a second time in not returning the boy to me the moment you knew of his existence."

"I beg your pardon," Bail fired back coolly, "but I was under the impression that the boy's father was Anakin Skywalker. Seeing that you no longer use that name, it is logically to be concluded you would want nothing to do with anything attached to it. And in any case, you have no proof that I had anything to do with the boy. I, on the other hand, have plenty of evidence of _your_ involvement. Given that, I'm afraid you're in no position to be making threats, _my lord_."

Vader went very, very still. Bail forced himself to keep breathing—because depending on how angry the man was, he might not have much longer to enjoy the ability. Those words could well prove his last…

"You play a dangerous game, Senator," the dark lord at last answered, very softly.

Bail smirked. "As do you in concealing the boy from your master."

Vader was again silent. The fact was irrefutable. "And what might it be that you want?" he asked after a time.

Bail paced in front of the fireplace. _Here goes nothing… _"Of course, I could always turn this information over to His Majesty," he began. "But as it happens, I have an alternative solution, one which might perhaps benefit both of us."

Vader remained unmoved. "And what might that be?"

"I think we've known each other long enough to agree that we are both men of ambition," Bail continued.

He thought he sensed a slight shift in Vader's attitude. "Surely you do not imply that I would harbor any treasonous motives," he rumbled. The pointed lack of hostility in his voice practically amounted to a confession.

Bail smiled tightly at him. "I think both of us would share a certain distaste for the current state of the galactic government. Is that not correct?"

"Continue," was the noncommittal answer.

Bail turned to face Vader fully and bluntly. "I'm sympathetic to the Rebel Alliance. You dislike the Emperor. Clearly, we share a common goal. Work with me to achieve this goal, and I'll forget that anyone by the name of Luke Skywalker ever existed."

The next five minutes passed in total silence, broken only by the measured hisses of the Sith's respirator. If he'd achieved nothing else during this meeting, he could at least claim that he'd completely thrown the insuperable Darth Vader off balance. "You fail to note that this goal is the _only_ one we may possibly share," the Sith at last observed with truly remarkable calm. "I can assure you, I harbor no distaste for the Empire."

"My lord, you are not a politician," Bail returned. "You are properly a warrior. I see no reason why you might not continue in that same role regardless of what government is in power. The destruction of the Empire need not entail the destruction of its Navy. Why not remain at its head as the supreme commander? In my honest estimation, I can think of no one better suited to the task."

Vader was again silent, this objection answered. "And what sort of cooperation do you envision?" he finally queried.

Bail began pacing again before of the antique fireplace. "Information exchange, protection of Rebel personnel, covert coordinated strikes, and so on. Of course, we must be careful not to compromise your security with the Emperor, as that is the primary weapon at our disposal. Imagine how much more quickly his removal could be affected if our forces were to cooperate! I trust I hardly need to state that our cooperation is the last thing the Emperor will anticipate."

Vader straightened ever so slightly. "Any _possible_ alliance between us requires two things to be understood, Senator. I will not jeopardize my son in any way, and neither will I betray the men under my command."

Bail nodded, and this time the respect in his voice was completely genuine. "I would not ask either of you," he answered. "As I stated before, I am as concerned for Luke's safety as you are. I too have a child, my lord."

"You would do very well to keep her hidden," Vader said, very softly, "because should I find that girl you will soon intimately understand the outrage of withholding a child from its father. On that, you may trust me implicitly."

The irony in the air was so thick Bail nearly choked on it as the dark lord whirled and stalked towards the door. "And what of my offer?" he called before Vader could open the door.

The man paused. "It will be given due consideration," he responded.

Then the door opened, and the waiting began again.

_Back on Dagobah…_

Meditation, though easily the most boring skill of the Force to an outside observer, was just as easily the most difficult. Whereas almost any idiot with the ability to sense the Force had it in him or her to master the flashiest lightsaber forms, effective meditation required no average level of intelligence. And even among those with both the power and the intelligence required, the discipline necessary to master the art was rarely achieved. The majority of Jedi had fallen far short of mastery—which was hardly to their detriment. Even the most advanced of Jedi Masters could not always make sense of the mysterious visions and wide, fluctuating range of experiences involved. Every foray into meditation was different from the last; to acquire even a cursory comprehension of all its possible mysteries was the work of a lifetime.

Ferus Olin, merely in his thirties, was a far cry from mastery. Yet he had once been one of the Jedi Order's best and brightest Padawans; neither was he unskilled. Over time, he had learned to sense whether or not a particular meditation session would prove successful. And that was why, a mere three hours later, Ferus cut off his efforts out of pure disgust. His mind was straining so much he had an unholy headache, a sure cue that he was completely failing to connect; and his muscles and joints had felt every motionless second. It was the worst attempt he'd made in years.

He grimaced. In fact, that had probably been a more pathetic performance than Anakin Skywalker had been infamous for in their Padawan days; and Anakin had been as spectacular a disaster in that area as he'd been a success in every other. It was saying something to be worse at meditation than Anakin Skywalker.

With a sigh of self-disgust, Ferus uncrossed his legs and stretched. In the process, his gaze fell on a small form curled on the patch of floor at his feet. Leia's slight shoulders rose and fell in the slow, steady rhythm of sleep.

Force. What the nine hells of Corellia was he supposed to do with the princess _now_? He had no further insights into the whereabouts of Master Yoda than before, and the Force had given him no guidance at all. He would try meditating again, but there was no use trying too soon. It would likely not avail him for a few days, if he judged himself correctly; until then, at the very least, he would be left adrift in space as regarded the young princess.

_Think, Ferus! _

The first conclusion he came to was that it made no sense for the two of them to spend those next few days crouched in this little hut. They may as well make their way back to the ship for starters.

As Ferus bent down—further, that was—to shake Leia awake, she began to twitch and whimper. Quickly her agitation increased, until with an abrupt gasp she sat bolt upright and knocked her shoulder directly into his skull, nicely exacerbating the headache left over from meditation—and as if that wasn't painful enough, slamming his head back against the ceiling too. He leaned forward and dropped his head into his hands with a pained groan.

"I—I'm sorry, Master Olin," she gasped immediately.

"It's all right, it's my own fault," he sighed wearily. "And don't call me Master Olin."

"Yes, Ma—Ferus."

"You had a dream?" he asked from behind his hands, still rubbing his throbbing temples.

She nodded. "I have lots of them," she said matter-of-factly. "This one wasn't so bad."

Ferus dropped his hands and looked at her more closely. "Not _so _bad?"

"Well—I didn't understand it at all," she said. "And there were people in it that annoy me."

"Oh? Who?"

"I…I think his name is Han Solo," she said. "I've been dreaming about him for more than a year now. I think I met him a few months ago."

Ferus raised an eyebrow. "And who else?"

"His little brother," she said. "Luke Solo. He's my age." She paused before remembering another important thing about the Solo brothers. "Ferus—they were the ones who sent Daddy that encrypted message."

Ferus leaned back thoughtfully, managing to ponder despite his headache. "What was in this dream?" he asked intently. Perhaps the Force had chosen to give them direction through Leia rather than himself…sometimes the young and uninhibited could experience remarkable connection to it. And with a child so precocious, who knew?

"Nothing new," she shrugged. "I've had it over and over. It's just the two of them. They're going down a dark street with patches of light here and there, and they're trying to stay near the light, and there's always lots of building rubble that they have to climb over. I haven't been able to figure out if it means anything."

Ferus, having some experience regarding visions, began the questions quickly. "Are you following these boys?"

Leia frowned. "I…well, maybe. It's more like I'm always hovering in front of them or to their side, but _I'm_ not really there, just my eyes."

"So you don't interact with this scenario at all?"

Leia shook her head. "Only watch."

"There's no dialogue between the boys?"

Another shake of the head.

"Do they seem to talk, but you can't hear it?"

Again the negative response.

"Is there any difference in what the boys are doing?"

Leia thought about that one. "Not much," she said. "Usually they're both looking right in front where they're climbing, but Han—he's the older one—sometimes he looks to the sides, and Luke sometimes looks way up ahead."

"Is it ever the other way around? Do either of them look back?"

Leia gave him a _no_ for both questions.

"What are they wearing?"

She shrugged. "The same clothes they wore whenever I saw them. Luke has a green jumpsuit and Han has his white shirt and dark pants."

"This never changes?"

"No."

Ferus sat thoughtfully for a while, thinking through these details—in no time a rush of triumph came to him. He could instantly interpret that the boys were beset by unknown difficulties and straining to keep from the darkness—that much was fairly straightforward. The few specific details Leia had dredged up for him were much more interesting.

Neither boy looked back; hence, both were focusing on the future, and not the past. However—where this Han tended to focus on the immediate future and on his surroundings, Luke saw further away.

It didn't take much creativity to identify that difference as indicating the younger brother's sensitivity to the Force.

Now _that _was interesting—and, just maybe, a clue as to what could have pulled Master Yoda out of the Dagobah swamps.

"What can you tell me about Luke?" he asked aloud.

"What do you want to know?" she asked cautiously.

"Anything. Anything at all you've noticed about him."

"Well…I met him on Dantooine when my father gave them both a ride to Alderaan. I only really talked to him once on the voyage…"

…

_Leia couldn't sleep again. There were no nightmares tonight, but the dream of the two boys who looked so like the ones she had met a few days ago kept interrupting her, more vivid than it had ever been—so vivid she could see slight scars on the face of the older boy, the fraying on the collar of the younger, could hear every sound as they worked their way through the dark, wreckage-piled street, following the few spots of light though sometimes the obstacles became more perilous there, the heaped rubble less stable. Every time she fell back asleep, the dream would wake her again. _

_With a soft exclamation of frustration she climbed out of her cabin bunk and pulled a soft loose tunic over her pajamas. Wriggling her feet into her slippers, she emerged carefully from her cabin into the dimmed light of the corridor. Maybe getting a snack from the passenger galley would help push away the dream and let her sleep. Leia moved as lightly as she could past the other doors; the last thing she wanted was a conversation with somebody…_

_The lights were on in the passenger lounge, and in the galley door. Leia slipped inside, sealed the door behind her in order to avoid being glimpsed by somebody and drawn into unwanted chatter, turned back around towards the food dispensers, and jerked back against the door, her next breath startled away._

_Luke Solo, on the other side of the little galley table cradling a mug of something, was every bit as shocked as she was. _

_After a recovery pause, Luke began to get up. "S-sorry, Princess," he started. _

_She quickly shook her head. Whether she wanted to talk to someone or not didn't matter; it wasn't fair to kick somebody else out of the galley. "No, you don't have to go," she objected, even though her heart wasn't really in it. _

_He stopped halfway out of his seat and stared at her, as if he knew that she really wanted him to go. Irritated at being seen through, she insisted again, "Sit down."_

_He sat down reluctantly, and moved his eyes back to his mug studiously. Neither of them spoke while Leia fixed herself a drink and a cookie. For a moment she watched the boy from behind, as he stared silently down, debating whether or not to take the snack back to her own cabin. Then, with an internal sigh, she succumbed to her conscience and sat down opposite Luke Solo. _

_The silence extended for a few more seconds before she resolutely broke it. "Do you usually go to bed late?" she asked politely. _

_Luke glanced up sharply, and shook his head. _

_Leia sighed again inside. She'd made him upset by not keeping back her feelings. That wasn't being a good hostess. Well—she'd just have to try to fix that. "Just felt like staying up tonight?" she tried. _

"_I…I just couldn't sleep."_

_Leia blinked. "Neither could I," she admitted before she thought about it. _

_Luke glanced up at her again, seeming a little less offended. "Funny," he commented. _

_She bristled a little. "Why is that funny?"_

_The little bit of openness that she'd glimpsed sealed over again. "No reason, I guess," he said distantly, switching his attention back to his drink. _

"_Is there anything wrong with your room that we can fix?" Leia spoke up. _

"_No…no, I just…well, I dream a lot." He swirled whatever liquid he had in his cup some. "Most of the time I can stop them, but sometimes they get too strong."_

_Leia's eyes widened. "You know how to keep dreams away?"_

_His green eyes swiveled back up to her, seeming a bit suspicious. "Yeah, most of the time."_

"_Can you teach me?" she asked excitedly. _

_His expression became very guarded—the sort of look she saw all the time from her father and other politicians. "Why?"_

"_I couldn't sleep because of dreams either," she said, tasting hope for the first time in forever. "I've been having them for more than three years. Some of them…well, some are bad. Can't you show me how to block them? Please?"_

_Luke's eyes seemed to soften for a second—he opened his mouth to answer…_

"_No," he said. "It—it's just a talent I have."_

"_But—maybe I have it too—"_

_Luke shook his head firmly. "No, I don't think so. I'm sorry, Princess." He stood up hurriedly, stuffed his mug in the cleaning unit and made a beeline for the galley door—then stopped, turned around one more time. _

"_I really am sorry," he whispered. "I wish I could help."_

…

"That was really the only time I talked to him," Leia told Ferus a bit wistfully. "I don't know why, but for some reason Daddy wanted to show me things or do something the whole ride back to Alderaan. When we got back, I saw Han for a while at the palace, but never Luke."

Ferus stared quietly into the distance. "Anything else you've noticed about him beyond that?"

"He had brown hair and green eyes when I met him, but in the transmission he was blonde with blue eyes," she remembered. "And they said they were orphans, but in the transmission he said that if I gave the message to anyone but Daddy his father would kill him. I don't think he meant that literally," she hastened to reassure Ferus.

But Ferus was busy building a picture in his mind. This savvy young Luke Solo—if in fact that was the boy's name—seemed by all indications to be Force sensitive. Somehow, Bail and Vader must both have discovered this information, and apparently Vader had snatched the Solo boys out of Bail's hands. Likely he kidnapped the older brother later for the purposes of coercing the younger to cooperate with his twisted designs. Bail had sent that astromech droid of the message to reconnoiter the situation, perhaps with a view to a rescue; in Vader's absence, security had discovered the infiltration and sent a courier with the news of Organa's meddling. The distraught boys had sought to protect their benefactor by sneaking out a call to the system. In which case, the reference to "father" had doubtless been a pseudonym for Vader—and the threat of death could well be real, a disguised plea for aid.

Yet, how would Yoda and Bail have known about this young Force sensitive? He was too young to have been a youngling at the Temple—

Oh. Of course. The boy must have been in Obi-Wan's charge. How dull of him not to think of that immediately…

In that case, Yoda had likely heard from Bail of Luke Solo's capture. Perhaps he had been biding his time until reports came from the astromech, providing information for a rescue attempt. However, if the boy really was in danger of his life, it was possible that the Jedi Master had discerned this through meditation and decided he could wait no longer.

Ferus leaned even further back, disturbed by the direction this train of thought was carrying him. This would mean that Yoda was headed for Vjun, for the lair of a Sith lord—incidentally the same Sith lord out for revenge on the Organa family. The senator was not likely to appreciate Ferus' taking his daughter _there_ of all places. Though, it had to be granted that Vader would certainly never suspect it…

In fact, all things considered, it might be the safest place of all for a fugitive princess and Jedi. Vader would certainly not be there—he was on his way to Alderaan. And Master Yoda very well _might_ be. Even should Vader turn up, Ferus would have been ashamed if the Jedi Master, himself, and the captive Padawan couldn't take the Sith on successfully. What was he so scared of? Back in the day, Ferus Olin had stood his ground against Anakin Skywalker—and Darth Vader was sure as stang no match for the Chosen One.

No; his only worry was Leia. Yet the Force sang to him now, assuring him that Yoda was the one he should take her to for safety, wherever the Jedi Master was. He would set his course for Vjun, and trust in the will of the Force to pave his way before him.


	31. The Not So Calm Before the Storm

Author's Note: Whew! Well, that wound up not being too long a wait, but don't expect lag times to stay this short, as this speed is primarily due to couple of snow days. Thanks to all of you out there who sent me in a record number of reviews for the last chapter! I enjoyed every last one of them. I must confess that this chapter is a bit shorter, and not quite so action-packed…but I liked writing this one. We'll just see if you enjoy reading it like I enjoyed writing it! Here's hoping! Tell me whether you do or not, I love to hear from you guys. (Come on…Valentine's Day…pretty please?)

_The planet of Vjun…_

Sara was awake again.

She wasn't 'posed to be awake. It was really, really late—she knew 'cause the chrono said one-two. She wasn't quite sure what number that was, but it was bigger than ten, and lots bigger than eight, and that was when she was 'posed to go to bed.

She most always wanted to stay up—Sandra too. They _always_ tried to get Miyr and Dadda to let them stay up. Miyr didn't _ever_ say yes, but sometimes Dadda would let them when he came home. It was fun to stay up with Dadda, cause he would tell them all sorts of stories. But Dadda was gone now, and Sandra was asleep, and Miyr was asleep.

But the big boys weren't asleep yet. Specially not Han. Sara sniffed unhappily and hugged her pillow tighter. Dadda always said it wasn't polite to think loud at night cause it woke people up, so she and Sandra knew that they had to think only quiet thoughts when they went to bed and when they woke up—and her big brother Luke must know too cause he didn't think loud _ever_. She didn't understand how he could be so quiet all the time—maybe big kids could do stuff like that.

Except Han didn't ever keep quiet, not ever at all! Sara sniffed again, angry and upset all at the same time. He thought so loud Dadda probably heard him all the way away 'cross the galaxy in his big ship. It kept waking her up every single night until he finally fell asleep. She _tried _telling him he had to be quiet, but he just laughed at her and called her a silly little kid. _Big stupid meanie!_

Defiantly she glared into the darkness, daring somebody to come and scold her for thinking words she wasn't allowed to use. But nobody came, and it was too hard to keep frowning at nothing, so she cuddled her face unhappily back into her pillow.

She really missed Dadda. If Dadda was here he'd make Han be quiet. She'd thought about finding Miyr, but Miyr didn't know how to make Han be quiet. Only Dadda knew how to do that cause he knew lots of stuff like that.

It was a few more minutes before the thought occurred to her: _Maybe Luke knows how? _

Instantly she hugged her pillow tighter and scowled into it. Uh-uh! She wasn't asking _him_. How come he had to come here anyway? Dadda was _her_ Dadda and Sandra's Dadda. She didn't want to share! He didn't get to come home very much, and now she was gonna hafta share him with two more people.

Suddenly the door slid open across the room, spilling a slash of light over the carpet and the bottom of the bed. Sara closed her eyes as fast as she could, feeling very guilty—it was Miyr checking on them, she did that sometimes. Sara was pretty sure Miyr didn't know what she had been thinking about, but she'd better pretend to be asleep anyways just to make sure.

"Sara?" somebody whispered.

Uh-oh—it wasn't Miyr. It was Luke. He must have heard what she was thinking! Sara tried as hard as she could to look like she was sleeping.

The bed creaked below her feet. "I know you're still awake," Luke whispered, real quiet. He was always quiet.

Grumpily Sara pulled her face out of her pillow. She never could trick Dadda, and probably she couldn't trick Luke either. "What do _you_ want?" she demanded.

"Shh. What's wrong?" he asked, still being very quiet.

She rolled back over resentfully. "Han's too loud," she grumbled through a mouthful of pillow.

"I'm sorry," Luke said. "He doesn't really know how to be quiet."

Sara sniffed. "Dadda would make him be quiet."

Luke didn't say anything for a little while. "Do you miss him?" he asked finally.

She nodded unhappily. "How come he can't stay here all the time?" she sniffled.

"He's gotta go do his job," Luke told her.

She sniffed some more. "I know," she muttered.

Luke was quiet some more. "I miss him too," he said after a while. _He_ sounded sad too, like her. Sara sat up, still hugging her pillow, and looked at her big brother. He _felt_ sad—a different kind of sad, a bigger sad. Dadda felt sad like that sometimes. All of a sudden she felt sorry for thinking mean things about Luke.

Luke got up, and she thought he was going to leave—but then he pulled her covers off and picked her up. "Come on," he said softly. "You can come help me work on Artoo."

Suddenly she didn't feel too sleepy anymore. "Can you tell me stories?" she asked eagerly, hugging her arms around his neck. "Dadda always tells us stories."

Luke carried her out into the hallway and shut the bedroom door as quietly as he could. "Yeah, I guess so," he said. "Betcha Threepio could tell some good stories too."

Sara giggled. "Threepio talks funny," she said. "I like him!"

"I'll turn him back on for you," Luke promised. He wasn't quite as strong as Dadda, and he had to use both arms, but he carried her the whole way around to his room, through where Dadda lived whenever he was at home—Sara watched very eagerly, because she didn't get to come in here very much. And she hadn't been in Luke's room at all.

He opened a door she hadn't seen before and took her inside his room, which was pretty big, but it didn't have a lot of colors like her room did. Luke set her down and she scampered around, looking at the desk and the big bed high up off the ground and peeked into his closet.

"You don't have lots of toys," she observed. She'd be sad too if she didn't have stuff to play with. Why didn't Luke have any toys in his room?

"I don't really play with toys," Luke said. Sara turned around in disbelief and saw that Luke was turning Threepio on.

"What do you play with?" she demanded. "You gotta have stuff to play with."

Luke grinned at her over his shoulder. "Me and Han like to fly in the simulators or fix stuff."

Sara made a face. "That's boring."

Luke laughed at her. "No, it's not. You'll see, sometime I'll let you ride along in the simulator."

Threepio's eyes lit up, and so did Sara's.

"Why, good evening, Mistress Sara," the big gold droid said in his funny voice. "It seems a bit late for you to be awake."

"Can you tell me a story?" Sara wanted to know.

Threepio hesitated. "Oh, I'm only an interpreter. I'm afraid I'm not very good at telling stories."

"Sure you are," Luke countered. "Come on, tell her a story. What about the time I set the dueling droids on fire? You can do all sorts of cool sound effects, right?"

"Oh…but Master Luke—isn't that story a bit alarming?"

Luke was switching on Artoo-Detoo and getting a tool box out of his closet. "So don't make it alarming," he shrugged.

"What's 'larming mean?" Sara asked absently as she tried to clamber up onto Luke's bed for a better view.

Luke set down the toolbox and put her on top of the bed. "Don't fall off," he warned her. She made a face at him and crawled to the head of the bed for a pillow, dragging it back down to her original perch. She wasn't gonna fall!

"Well…if you insist, Master Luke," the droid said reluctantly. Sara wrapped her arms around the pillow and fixed her blue eyes expectantly on Threepio's shiny gold face.

Threepio stood helplessly for a moment—maybe he hoped Luke might still tell him he didn't have to tell any stories—but Luke didn't say anything. Sara giggled excitedly as Threepio finally started one.

"Very well. I shall tell you about the dueling droids," Threepio began, in his funny voice. "Before Master Luke and I and my counterpart Artoo-Detoo arrived here at Bast Castle, we inhabited Lord Vader's apartments aboard the _Executor_—"

"Smaller words, huh, Threepio?" Luke cut in. Sara glanced at him; he was scraping on Artoo's hull with some sort of tool she hadn't ever seen before. There were lots of things in here she hadn't seen before.

"Oh—yes, of course, Master Luke." Threepio turned back to Sara. "As I was saying, Miss Sara, Artoo and I and Master Luke all lived on Lord Vader's starship."

Sara's eyes grew big and bright. She loved the stories about her Dadda's great big ship the best.

"On the ship, your father has a room where he practices with his lightsaber," Threepio continued. "One day, Master Luke went to go help clean the droids in the room—oh, my!"

Sara gasped too and sat bolt upright as someone pounded hard on the door.

"Kid! Hey, kid!"

Luke got up muttering and opened the door. Sara scowled as soon as she saw who it was. It was _Han_. Big meanie. How come he couldn't just go to sleep?

"Look, kid, you're never gonna believe—what's up with the twerp?"

Sara didn't know _what_ he just said, but she glared hard at him anyway. Luke glared too as he sat back down in front of Artoo.

"Isn't she supposed to be in bed?" Han demanded.

"She can't sleep," Luke said testily. "Aren't _you_ supposed to be in bed?"

"Yeah, I am, that's why I came here," Han agreed in a rush.

Luke blinked and looked back up. "You're supposed to be asleep, so you come visit me," he repeated slowly. After a moment he shook his head. "Well, I guess I already knew something was wrong with you…"

"No—look, lemme explain." Han crouched down and began counting off fingers. "I was in bed, right, and then—" He paused suddenly and glanced again at the irritated Sara. "Look, can we put the baby doll back in the crib first?" he asked.

"Stop calling her names, she's already got one."

"Okay, fine. Can we put Sandy or whatever her name is back in bed? Seriously, Luke, this is important."

"Sara."

"Huh?"

"Her _name _is _Sara_."

"I don't care if her name is Vaderette," Han burst out in frustration. "We gotta get her back in bed pronto for about ten different reasons."

"What reasons?"

"I said already, I can't tell you with Short Stuff hangin' around!"

"_Sara_," Luke snapped. "Look, just come over and whisper it, okay? Sara, Threepio's gonna keep telling you the story."

Sara nodded angelically. Too angelically for Han Solo's liking.

"Other side of the room," he said tersely. "Stay put, shorty."

Sara stuck out her tongue at him. "Big loud meanie!"

"Boy, _that_ cuts deep," Han snorted.

Luke whacked a hydrospanner none too gently into Han's shins. "Stop teasing her, she's only two," he lectured.

Sara's glare switched onto Luke. "I'm almost three!" she said indignantly.

Luke sighed. "Okay, sorry. Just listen to Threepio for a few minutes, okay? We're talking about…um…fixing stuff. You'd be bored."

Sara made a face and quickly turned all her attention back to Threepio, as far away from boring as she could get. Luke dragged Han quickly across to the other side of the room.

"_What_?" he demanded in a whisper.

"Luke, I swear, there is something inside this place that is definitely not supposed to be here," Han hissed.

Luke stared back at him, quite unfazed. "Why do you think that?"

"I could hear it in the ventilation shaft through my ceiling, not two minutes ago," Han defended. "There was something crawling through."

"Han, it's probably just some kind of animal. They get into shafts all the time, you idiot."

"Do they usually speak Basic?" Han snapped. "Cause this _animal_ sure could."

Luke froze. "It was _talking_."

Han nodded tensely.

"What did it say?"

"I don't know exactly—but it was angry, and it mentioned you, kid. _Young Skywalker_, it said that."

Luke turned pale. "Han—do you think it's a spy from the Emperor?"

"It gets worse," Han continued grimly. "I got up when I couldn't hear the voice anymore, and my comlink was gone, and my computer had been searched. Whoever it is, they've got the passcodes to this joint. I'm thinking maybe it's a little worse than a spy." _Maybe an assassin. _Luke nodded shakily.

"Yeah," he breathed. "Okay. You get Sara and Sandra and take them down the emergency turbolift. I'm gonna go to the salle."

"Ain't no way I'm gonna leave you up here by yourself with some creep crawling around tryin' to kill you!" Han hissed fiercely.

"Han, I said the _salle_. I can program the dueling droids," Luke reassured him. "He just brought in a new batch; there's fifteen on the ready rack and twenty more in storage. It'd take somebody as powerful as my father to get past thirty-five dueling droids. Believe me, I can't get any safer."

Han wasn't quite convinced. "Just come down with us," he said.

"Han, we gotta get rid of this guy, whoever he is," Luke said urgently. "If I can lure him into the salle, the droids can take care of him. It'll work, I promise."

"Fine," Han said at last. "But as soon as I get those two downstairs, I'm comin' back up and finding Captain Landre, you got that?"

"Good idea," Luke agreed. "Maybe I can lure the spy out by then and we can catch him."

"All right—let's go. And try not to set any of those krethin' droids on fire this time, huh?"

Han had heard the tale of the _Executor_'s dueling salle just once, yet he hadn't forgotten a single detail, and he delighted in reminding Luke of the mishap whenever he could. One more way in which Han and his father resembled one another…

Luke grinned through his adrenaline. "Blaster in my right desk drawer," he murmured. "You might want that."


	32. Convergence

Author's Note: YAY!!! I know you guys have been waiting for (_cringes_) just about three months…but at long last, I have finally broken my writer's block! Now, I know this isn't a very long chapter, but bear with me: I finally know what I'm going to do with the plot, and more is already in the works, but it's also finals week at school, so between studying and test-taking and packing and general end-of-year chores, I'm not likely to get very much time to write. Anyway…I know not a whole lot happens in this chapter, but the action is en route. One more thing…kindly bear with me as far as scene-splicing. There's a bit of jumping around the timeline that will hopefully come clear in the next chapter. And please forgive me for being such an abominably slow updater… Hope you will enjoy this chapter nonetheless!

_The Alderaan system, about a day later…_

Vader had remained brooding within his quarters for nearly twenty-four hours straight, pondering Organa's ultimatum. He had yet to come to any decisions—he could not even decide if it _had_ been an ultimatum. Would Organa truly go so far as to reveal Luke's identity to the Emperor? Considering that the man had claimed to care for Luke, Vader was not certain that he would do so. On the other hand, the man might easily decide that one boy was an acceptable cost for toppling an empire.

Perhaps he should simply bring the boy to Coruscant and rip Organa's card right out of his hands?

No, no—he could not do that. He had no guarantee that Organa did not also have footage of Sara and Sandra; in that case, he would have placed one child in danger for nothing at all. And he did not like the thought of putting Luke in such danger under _any_ circumstances; the dark lord grudgingly admitted that he would sooner accede to Organa's demands than risk his son.

Yet…could he afford to bow to Organa? It would be not only a distasteful game to play, but a dangerous one. Dared he do anything to incur the Emperor's further suspicion? He was already walking a narrow balance beam when it came to the Emperor, and having plenty of trouble keeping his footing; it might be fatal to make a leap up onto a high wire.

On the other hand, it was not as though a temporary alliance with Organa would not have its benefits. Ragtag as the so-called Rebel Alliance was, it was nonetheless a resource. In many respects, it could be quite a valuable resource. Rumor had it that the Rebels—some cells of them, anyway—had connections to the famed Bothan spynet, which Vader knew to be superior to that of the Empire. Even more importantly, Palpatine had no dealings with the Bothans. Vader had more than once sought to bring the Bothans under his command, yet the aliens to date had been shrewd enough to dodge involvement with him. Yes; if through Organa he could acquire the use of the Bothan spynet, the alliance—however humiliating—would be desirable. Most desirable.

And of course, this alliance was hardly a permanent one. Vader did not foresee it enduring longer than five years—seven, at the very most. Once Palpatine was disposed of, Organa's hold over him would dissipate. Palpatine was the only true threat to his little ones; with the Emperor removed, he had nothing left to fear. It would be all too easy to assume control of the Empire in Palpatine's stead. Organa would hardly pose a threat at that point; he could be punished then for his presumption in blackmailing a Sith. Perhaps the Alliance would have become a force to reckon with by that time, true…but also by that time, presuming no galactic cataclysms occurred, Palpatine's Death Star should be complete. Of that great project the Alliance was unaware. Much as Vader disliked the beastly abomination, it would be a magnificent ace-in-the-hole….

Well. It seemed, all things considered, that there were more concrete benefits to this forced union than drawbacks. True, he might arouse Palpatine's increased suspicion; but he could not hold that at bay forever, and if he had to take the risk, he might as well do so when it would best serve him. And if at any time he should decide to withdraw, well…Bail Organa did not stand as high as Darth Vader in the Emperor's esteem. If necessary, he could get away with killing the man.

Very well. He would order his shuttle and speak with Organa again on the matter. Of course, it was necessary that details be ironed out; depending on what Organa wanted from him, it could become necessary to kill the man before the discussion was over, as Vader would only humor this infuriating coercion within limits. Should Organa demand too much, it would be his final mistake.

_Elsewhere…_

The shadows in the corridors had taken on a peculiar shiftiness all of a sudden, but it wasn't until Luke was inside the dueling salle that he _really_ got nervous. On the far side of the spacious chamber, gleaming faintly under the minimized intensity of the glow panels, stood a long storage rack lined with the slumbering shapes of his father's lethal dueling droids. Luke's nervous glance wavered for a few seconds between the silent droids and the shelf nearby, on which sat a conspicuous container of cleaning solvent…

Luke edged up to the rack control panel, hugging his back in to keep as far away from The Shelf as he possibly could, and pressed the key that he knew from…ah, previous experience…would activate all of the droids. With a spine-shivering whir of servomotors and flowing stream of sparked lights, the droids unfolded themselves from the rack one by one.

Though in appearance they could not have been more mechanical, the most terrifying thing about them was how unlike droids they behaved. The tall, claw-footed, lanky creations loped away from the rack with slow, predacious strides, separating, mingling, coming around to regard Luke coolly, lightsabers held with chilling looseness in their mechanical grasp. Intellectually, Luke knew that this behavior was completely programmed to emulate that of a highly trained Force-sensitive warrior. His father had explained that to him. But knowing that wasn't enough to keep him from feeling chills down his spine at the nightmarish mix of the mechanical with the human.

Shakily Luke stepped out in front of the droids. He'd gotten his father's lightsaber out of its hiding place in his bedroom—the blue one he'd been given after his arm healed—and now he gripped it with a sweaty palm. The droids waited silently for a command—or a provocation. He could almost feel their photoreceptors burning holes in the air around his lightsaber…

"Hold attack," he ordered, working his dry mouth, thinking through the lists of verbal commands his father had taught him. "Engage defensive drill. Objective is the salle." Whew—that was a mouthful. How come his father had to use so many darn big words?

It worked—the droids immediately turned their attention away from him and began scoping out the room. If machines could itch for a fight, those things definitely were, Luke thought uneasily. He backed up against the far wall, as far from the door as he could get, and watched the dueling droids lope around the room. Nothing left to do now but wait.

_A short time earlier, over Vjun…_

Ferus Olin sucked in one last breath, praying that he was doing the right thing, and drew back the hyperspace lever. Beside him, Leia gripped the armrests of the co-pilot seat tightly. She'd been surprisingly vociferous in her disagreement with his decision to take them to Vjun—one would have thought she was an adult politician, rather than a thirteen-year-old girl. For a while, he hadn't been sure if he could reassert his authority. Had it not been for Bail Organa's excellent parenting, he probably wouldn't have won the fight.

_Olin! You _won_ that battle, focus on the now or you'll have another one on your hands!_ Ferus jerked his thoughts back to the present and switched on the freighter's cloaking shield. He killed the sublight engines and held his breath, listening. Ahead of them, orbiting the forbidding sphere that was Vjun, was a bone-white Star Destroyer, and it reminded Ferus of nothing so much as the neo-gators he had misjudged once on a mission to Syperia, back in his Padawan days…so lazy in appearance, but so very deadly.

But the minutes passed, and the Destroyer issued no challenge. Finally, Ferus could breathe again. They had not been seen. Slowly, he relit the sublight engines and started the freighter on a slinking course towards the planet.

They had not gotten a thousand kilometers closer before the Force suddenly blazed with warning. Leia shrieked as Ferus twisted the controls violently, without warning or thought, pitching the freighter into a screaming dive. Desperately he turned to his scopes, just in time to see an unmarked Imperial shuttle materialize out of hyperspace—almost close enough to clip his shields!

Had he not wrenched the ship away, they might not have been hit—but they sure as heck would have been discovered, a fate no less fatal.

As he and Leia watched, both nearly hyperventilating, the newcomer promptly disappeared from their scopes and visuals.

_What the—?_

He hastily switched the com suite to the Imperial frequencies, but neither the Star Destroyer nor the newly arrived shuttle made any transmissions, encrypted or otherwise. The shuttle had switched on its own cloaking system; clearly it did not wish to be seen. Had Ferus not been lurking so nearby, it would have succeeded.

Why would an Imperial ship be trying to sneak in system?

Tentatively—_very_ tentatively—Ferus stretched out with the Force to probe. He dared not push too far, but he edged out just enough to discern that the shuttle had but one occupant. The indifferent ripple of that solitary presence was already on the move, swiftly progressing towards the planet. Ferus was willing to bet they shared a destination.

Ferus killed the engines yet again, with an apprehensive glance in the general direction of the Star Destroyer.

"What's going on?" Leia demanded shakily.

"I'm not sure," he murmured. What _was_ going on?

_Inside the castle…_

_Kreth it, short stuff, you are _definitely_ Vader's kid! _

Han was running through the halls on his way to the twerplings' room, and Sara was doing her darnedest to raise all nine Corellian hells. She was yelling epithets at him, the worst she could invent—if she'd just had more material to work with, Han was willing to bet she'd be coming up with the most creative insults he'd ever heard—and pounding her small fists furiously wherever she could land a blow. Kinda sorta reminded him of that spunky little princess from Alderaan, just a whole lot shorter.

If Sandra was even _half_ this bad, it was gonna take a heck of a lot longer than he'd planned to get these two packed away in the safe. Which was that much longer before he could find Captain Landre and make sure Luke was safe.

The door to the twins' room loomed ahead—Han put on an extra burst of speed. Sandra was in there, and he knew for a fact that there was a blaster hidden in a wall compartment, and he was gonna feel a _whole_ lot better once he'd gotten a hold of both of them.

He was only a few feet away when somebody else—somebody _definitely_ not Sandra—emerged from the bedroom door. Sara shrieked and Han felt a stab of terror as that somebody raised a blaster—but he wasn't fast enough to dodge, and the last thing either of them saw was a flash of blue stun circles.

…

visual scan processing. identify: mechanical unit asp-19, count fifteen; human, count one; threat objectives, count zero. scan analysis: continue standby.

ASP-1922, had it been human, would have heaved a sigh as it arrived at the same dismal conclusion for the 1.276 millionth time since its activation a few minutes ago. The objective was the defense of the salle, but as yet, there hadn't been the slightest hint of a threat. Wistfully, ASP-1922 let the possibility of the salle's only human occupant launching an attack linger in its processing circuits for a whole .00005 seconds before its command files forced him to dismiss it. According to the programming it had received only recently from Lord Vader, this particular, rather smallish human was one of the handful it was not permitted to engage in combat, no matter what the circumstances.

ASP-1922 tried to console itself with another scan of the salle, and flexed its grip hopefully around the lightsaber hilt.

visual scan processing. identify: mechanical unit asp-19, count fifteen; human, count one; threat objectives, count zero. scan analysis: continue standby.

No luck. It ran a couple thousand more scans to be sure. Dimly its aural receptors noted the whirrs and low-tone buzzes as its counterparts ran their own scanning programs. Slowly ASP-1922 loped around them all towards the fore of the salle, ambling closer to the entrance. When the threat finally showed up, its competitive programming lectured it, it planned on being the first one into the fight.

visual scan processing…

Then, in the span of a second, the monotony evaporated. First came a sudden gasp from the smallish human, which ASP-1922's sensors quickly identified as being fearful—but there was hardly enough time for it to calculate the first thousand possible causes for that fear before it was bombarded with fresh sensory input. Without warning, the salle door whooshed open, and along with every other dueling droid in the salle ASP-1922 whipped around to assess the newcomer.

A lightsaber immediately blazed forth from the doorway.

With a surge of what—had it been human—would certainly have been triumph charging through its circuits, ASP-1922 ignited its lightsaber and charged the target, several meters ahead of the other droids.

It was the last mistake of its electronic existence.

_Just a few minutes previously…_

Back in the murdered days of the Republic, among the now-slain numbers of the Jedi Order, there had been one thing that crossed every boundary of rank and age—one common value that every Jedi understood, from youngling to master. That one thing was this: the unsurpassed authority of Master Yoda.

After his recent bargaining session with Vader over the matter of Han Solo, Obi-Wan Kenobi had found it rather amusing how quickly that old habit had died, laughing to himself over his audacity in speaking for the ancient Jedi Master.

Yoda, however, was not similarly amused. And increasingly, neither was Obi-Wan.

"Master Yoda, I have given the Order's word not to interfere with the boy," he pleaded, his spirit hastening along behind the diminutive master.

Yoda _humphed_ and continued threading through the ventilation shaft. "My own counsel will I keep on who is to be trained," he returned, a touch irritably. "Reckless your promises are; abide by them I will not."

"Master Yoda, it will appear to Anakin as a deception, and that is not the way of the Jedi," Obi-Wan tried again.

Yoda stopped and turned around, and thumped his gimer stick emphatically on the bottom of the shaft. "Cease, this attachment to your Padawan must," he barked. "Unfortunate Anakin's fall is, painful it is, but accept it you must!"

Obi-Wan gritted his teeth and started to retort, but Yoda was not finished yet. "Young your Padawan was, manipulated he may have been, but blind he was not. Made his decision, he has. Let go, you must let go!"

"Master, he loves his son," Obi-Wan pleaded. "Luke is the last light remaining to him. We cannot abandon him to the darkness!"

"And what of the boy?" Yoda countered. "Abandon him to the darkness, will you?"

Obi-Wan fell silent.

"Suffer for his father's mistakes, the child should not. Unacceptable it is to leave an innocent child in the hands of a Sith."

"He has not harmed the boy," Obi-Wan tried, ashamed at the weakness of the argument even as he voiced it. "He loves him."

Yoda seemed rather angered by such a pitiful objection, for he thumped his gimer stick yet again. "Loved Senator Amidala, he did! Subject young Skywalker to such danger, the Jedi cannot! Our responsibility to protect him, it is. Reckless you have been with his spirit, reckless!" With another humph and plenty of muttering, Yoda turned back around and continued on his way down the ventilation shaft.

Obi-Wan suppressed a spasm of exasperation and marched after him. "And supposing that Luke does not agree to come with you?" he challenged.

Yoda stopped once more and turned to address Obi-Wan—but his eyes and voice were gentler this time. "A child he is. Understand enough to make such a decision, he does not. Sound teaching he requires, before he can face the dark."

Obi-Wan crossed his arms in a huff. "I take it _my_ teaching is not up to your standards," he said, a tad snappishly.

Yoda ignored the comment. "Shown him the allure of the dark side, Vader has. The dangers young Skywalker must quickly learn, or too late it soon may be."

Obi-Wan sighed as they resumed the trek down the ventilation shaft. "I still think this is a mistake," he grumbled.

Yoda chuckled. "Dead, you are. Necessary to consult you, it is not."

Obi-Wan scowled.


	33. It All Depends On Your Point Of View

Author's Note: All right, I know this isn't much, but it's been a really hectic summer so far and I haven't had time to get any further. Hope you enjoy this, such as it is… :P

The two Jedi had been chasing Luke's erratically moving presence through the castle for nearly half an hour when the boy's emotional aura performed a sudden metamorphosis. Until now he'd been fairly content, with alternating undercurrents of cheerfulness and mild sadness—but in a mere instant all that exploded into a blaze of alarm, just as they'd reached the ventilation grate closest to his room. The door whooshed open and a stampede was unleashed beneath them. One set of pounding footsteps vanished up the corridor—the other, belonging to Luke, rushed in the opposite direction.

Yoda muttered something under his breath and altered course down an adjoining shaft, hobbling along a bit more quickly than before. Obi-Wan thought of shifting down into the hallway and calling to Luke—but stubbornly rejected the thought. Drat it, _he_ at least meant to keep the promises he made!

Fortunately, Luke's suddenly frightened presence soon ceased to move, though it grew even more nervous. Yoda picked up pace even more. Soon a grate loomed ahead; with a dismissive wave of one tri-fingered paw, it twisted itself out of its frame and bowed down onto the surface of the shaft; Yoda bounded through the opening and landed on sprightly feet; Obi-Wan wafted out behind him. Immediately ahead loomed a forbidding armored door, reinforced by a battery of alert systems calculated to make anybody think twice before trying to force entry.

None of them was a match for a Jedi Master. The door obeyed Yoda's bidding as quickly as the shaft grate—and at the same time, a fresh stab of terror boiled out from Luke, and Obi-Wan caught his breath, sensing how threatened the boy felt—

All was clear an instant later as the door slid aside, revealing a horde of sinister, spider-limbed battle droids, each with a lightsaber clutched in its clawed grip. Trapped against the far wall, surrounded by the lethal droids as if by a horde of neo-sharks, was young Luke.

_Distract them! _Obi-Wan's hand flashed instinctively to his side—but of course there was no lightsaber there, and even if there'd been, a ghostly blade would have done nothing against solid battle steel. Fortunately, Yoda was a step ahead of him; his green lightsaber had been ignited the second he assessed the deadly peril Luke faced.

The closest of the droids wasted no time—in a nanosecond it was bearing down on the Jedi Master, its blade sweeping in a lethal Djem-So undercut, an unstoppable bolt of red lightning—

But in a nearly invisible blur Yoda was suddenly on the opposite side of the swing, and before the droid could compensate a shaft of green lightning burned a path of carbon and ozone through its stalk of a neck. Even as the first droid collapsed, the rest of them arrived, and everything became a din of color and whipping motion.

…

Luke was running out of options fast. His dueling droid plan hadn't anticipated that the enemy would turn out to be a green lightsaber-twirling droid-decimating demon-troll. All the curse words he'd ever learned from Han were chasing each other in circles around his head, screwing up his efforts to _think_ of something.

There was only one door—and it was on the opposite side of the room, with a slew of battle droids and the green troll from hell in between. He could make a run for it and pray he got lucky. He could wedge himself behind the droid storage rack and pray that the dwarf-sized maniac wouldn't find him.

Or he could switch on his lightsaber and fight back.

He almost broke out into a hysterical laugh. His _father_ wouldn't last five minutes against this…whatever the heck it was. He might as well save his time and follow Obi-Wan's precedent…

An adrenaline overdose was making his fingers and knees shake. Luke backed up against the wall, between the rack and the shelves, and watched the troll send smoldering chunks of dueling droid clattering across the floor. A searing-hot fragment suddenly spiraled his way, Luke ducked instinctively, and looked up to see it speared into the wall between the shelves.

His eyes froze on the container of cleaning solvent.

Maybe he had a fourth option after all…

…

Obi-Wan had completely lost track of what was going on. What Yoda had thought was a simple extraction operation, and what Obi-Wan had thought was a breach of faith, had somehow turned into a wildly chaotic duel with a battalion of demented dueling droids, which were supposed to have been attacking Luke, but actually seemed to be defending the boy—except that must not be the case, because now _Luke_ had joined the fray, armed with a gigantic container of cleaning solvent.

Only in the house of Anakin Skywalker could such chaos spring out of thin air. Obi-Wan threw up ghostly hands and flitted through the melee towards Luke, shouting to make himself heard over the uproar. _Somebody_ had to restore order before Luke got himself killed, promises or no.

"Luke!" he shouted. "Luke, you must listen—"

"That's okay, I got a plan!" Luke shouted back, splashing cleaning solvent over the closest droid with frenzied abandon. "I can get rid of that thing!"

"Wait, Luke, that's Master Yoda—"

But not for nothing was Luke's last name Skywalker. "Yeah, I know I missed one!" he yelled. "Gimme a second!"

And as Obi-Wan watched in horror, Luke hurled the half-full container of cleaning solvent into the air, ignited his lightsaber, slashed the container in half—and made a wild-brained dash for the door through a forest of saber-wielding droids.

The room suddenly exploded in flames as the alcohol in the cleaning solvent ignited. Dimly Obi-Wan sensed Yoda seize hold of the Force and jerk himself out of the path of the exploding bonfire, only barely in the nick of time. But mere fire was not the half of it—the dueling droids, despite being sheathed in flame, were not in the least deterred.

The only things that suffered were the unprotected logic-analysis cables running on the backs of their heads.

The remaining droids went completely berserk. They charged Yoda like so many raw nuclear explosions, hacking at anything and everything that got in their way—floor, wall, chunks of droid, even their own limbs. The army of alarms began to shriek, the deck and wall plating to melt, the circuitry in the room to explode—and the door had sealed once again behind Luke, where the heat from burning droid debris welded it into its track.

By the time either Jedi could think of something other than Yoda's immediate survival, Luke had been gone for ten minutes.

…

Something was definitely wrong at Bast Castle. It had simply been too easy for both Ferus and the mysterious hidden ship ahead of him to slip into the atmosphere and touch down at the unused back landing pad of Vader's castle. Granted, they were both under cloaking shields and invisible to all sensors, but surely _somebody_ should have been on guard duty at the landing pad—should have heard them landing. In fact, unable to believe it, Ferus had kept their freighter well behind the other ship, letting it land first. Though the ship could not be seen, its occupant eventually blinked into appearance on the landing platform as he (or maybe she) emerged from the shield's perimeter and immediately strode out of sight into the building. Suspiciously, Ferus waited for a few more minutes while Leia breathed shakily beside him; finally, when no signs of alarm arose, he eased the freighter down on the opposite side of the landing platform, praying he was clear of the other ship.

They punctured the shield bubble a few meters before touchdown, and the mystery craft reappeared before their eyes. Ferus' eyes had not deceived him; it was indeed an unmarked Imperial _lambda_ shuttle, with a few modifications that definitely weren't in line with Navy standards.

"Why would Imperials be sneaking in here?" Leia murmured.

Ferus shrugged. _Sith me if I know_.

They sat in silence for a few seconds more, Ferus thinking furiously and Leia shifting uneasily in her seat. "All right," he finally announced. "Once we get inside, I'll find myself a uniform. We'll pretend you're my daughter and I'm taking you along to work."

"They're going to believe _that_?" Leia was glaring at him and crossing her arms.

"Probably not," he conceded, "but at least it'll throw them off balance. Surprise always helps. Once we're inside, you're going to stay right behind me. Pay attention, keep your eyes open, and keep quiet. Understood?"

Leia nodded somberly.

"If something happens to me, get out of here," he pressed on. "If I'm captured, if I'm shot, hit with a stun blast, _do not_ try to save me. You worry about saving yourself first, Princess." He gave her a pointed look to go with his uncharacteristic use of her title, reminding her that she was more important than he was. She nodded again, meeting him with a sober stare; she got it.

"All right. Let's head in."

They slipped off the ship warily, and Ferus' suspicions were immediately confirmed. The alarms were howling from inside the building; something was definitely amiss.

Ferus was hoping that something was Yoda.

…

The Force must really, really like him. Luke didn't know how else he could possibly have dashed past all of those dueling droids and not gotten nixed by either them or the demon troll. But he'd escaped them, and he'd escaped the explosion, and he'd gotten the door locked behind him.

The demon troll, even if it survived _that_, definitely wasn't going to be chasing after him anytime soon. All the same, Luke didn't stop running until he was out of his father's quarters and tearing through the halls. The alarms were screaming bloody murder, but no troops had arrived. Han must not have gotten back upstairs yet—nobody had warned Captain Landre—

But where was Miyr?

The thought made Luke screech to a halt. She should be awake after those alarms.

But she was nowhere to be seen.

Luke hesitated, fearful that the killer troll might get past those deranged dueling droids faster than expected and catch up with him—but then he spun around and dashed back the way he came until he reached Miyr's chamber door, down at the end of the long hall. He keyed it open hastily, ran in shouting—and promptly fell flat on his face.

Gasping, he rolled over, scooted back, sat up—and saw Miyr sprawled out on the floor, her eyes frozen wide open.

Someone had stunned her. Luke sucked in a breath and shot a terrified glance around the room before scrambling up and shaking her as hard as he could.

She didn't even blink, though she was breathing. The troll must have stunned her really hard. Luke barely remembered to close her eyes before he started to scrabble through her pockets. She had to have a comlink, it had to be somewhere—kreth it, why hadn't he tried to grab his earlier, _why_—

There! His fingers closed over the comlink and he snatched it from her pocket. He had to call Captain Landre—

_No!_ The device refused to work, no matter how hard he punched the _on_ button and no matter how many times he shouted the voice commands at it. It was probably password-protected, he thought frantically—then he saw the scanner set into the grip.

He lunged back at Miyr and forced her hand around the grip of the comlink.

Sure enough, it switched on. Luke's fingers trembled as he put the call through—those droids probably weren't enough to stop the troll, it might be out any minute—

"Landre speaking," the comlink crackled.

"Captain Landre?" Luke hissed. He wanted to shout, but the troll could be on the loose.

"Luke?" The voice on the opposite end sounded quite puzzled. "Shouldn't you be in bed—"

"There's an assassin!" Luke whispered urgently.

Silence. "Are you sure you didn't dream it?" the captain asked after a moment.

Luke wanted to scream at him. "_Yes_, I'm sure! It's got a lightsaber, it knocked out Miyr!"

Another silence. "I'm on my way," Landre promised him tersely. "Can you get to the safe room?"

"No!"

"Where are Han and the girls?"

Before Luke could get out an answer, the Force began to ripple—like three bubbles of fear had suddenly burst somewhere in its midst. It was Han, Han and Sara and Sandra—but he had barely even sensed their sudden terror when it ended. Like someone had sheared through it with a lightsaber. Desperately he stretched towards them and _tapped_, as Obi-Wan had taught him, but there was no response, and he could sense no emotion or thought or any activity.

But there was someone else he _could_ sense. Someone grimly focused, someone cold and objective.

The troll must have gotten out and found Han and his sisters!

"…Luke? Luke, answer me!"

Luke shook himself free and seized the comlink even tighter in Miyr's hand. "Hurry up, they're in trouble!" he shouted. Ignoring whatever response the captain tried to make, he dropped Miyr's hand—the comlink rolled out onto the floor and instantly shut off. Luke scrambled crazily to his feet and spun around in the center of the room. She had to have a blaster in here somewhere, right? Maybe he'd have better luck trying to hit the troll with a stun blast. It was a faint hope—heck, even _he_ could block stun shots—but he knew he didn't stand a chance with his lightsaber.

It was several minutes before he finally found the secret compartment where castle security had concealed the blaster. Seizing it, Luke drew a deep breath and eased back out into the corridor.


	34. Collisions

Author's Note: Apologies for the delay, but this chapter should make it up to you. Nice and long and exciting :)

It didn't take Ferus long to find a uniform, which was lucky. Not so luckily, the uniform came with an officer and a squadron of stormtroopers thrown into the bargain. Ferus snapped up his lightsaber reflexively to block their fire and pulled out his blaster with his free hand. What of the troopers didn't get blasted by their own stun shots he nailed with his own. The officer went down with them, caught squarely between the eyes, his uniform still pristine thanks to the Jedi's clinical precision.

Ferus reached back around the corner immediately and found Leia's hand. He pulled her out behind him and knelt down to peel the uniform off. The two of them ducked into a 'fresher nearby while Ferus changed quickly into the uniform. He tucked his definitely-longer-than-regulation hair up beneath the cap as best he could and slipped his lightsaber into the blaster holster, but still grimaced at his reflection. If anybody actually _looked_ at him, they'd know something was up. Not that Leia's presence wouldn't be enough to cause suspicion in itself…

Ferus drew an uncertain breath, but quickly put all doubts out of mind. He could not afford to be distracted. With a brisk step he headed back into the castle, hand resting on his lightsaber in the holster and Leia right behind him, keeping to the shadows. As he moved, he performed a quick mental search of the Force aura surrounding and penetrating the castle. There were hundreds of beings swarming through the complex, but what registered far more strongly than all of them was the bright glowing he could sense on the uppermost floor.

If Yoda and young Luke Solo were anywhere in this building, it was up there. Ferus began hunting for a turbolift.

_Some several lightyears away…_

"Lord Vader," Bail Organa acknowledged, adding an urbane nod of the head to his greeting. "I take it you've made your decision."

Vader regarded him silently from the opposite side of the palace's safe room, thumbs hooked into his belt, grinding his teeth furiously within the confines of his mask. The dark lord would sincerely prefer to dive back into the fires of Mustafar rather than concede to Organa's demands, but he had no choice. As he began to speak, he seized upon the small consolation that his frustration would not be translated through the vocabulator. "You have my agreement."

Organa made no outward display of triumph—very wise of him. Had there been even the slightest suggestion of a smirk, Vader probably would not have had the patience to kill the man as slowly as he deserved.

"Upon certain conditions," Vader continued through tight lips. "You will transfer to me a copy of all the stolen holographic data you possess."

Organa regarded him, his misgivings obvious.

"That," Vader pressed quickly, "is _not_ negotiable."

Organa considered for another moment and finally give a single nod. "Acceptable."

"You will further—" That was as far as Vader got before the Force erupted into chaos in the back of his head. Shouts, shrieks, shots, crazed spirals of blue, flames, spinning lightsabers, scorched corpses, howling alarms—

"Lord Vader?" Organa's voice somehow cut through the mayhem and drew him back. The senator actually sounded a little…concerned?

_How dare he!…_ But he soon found it took too much effort to compel himself to be angry when all he really felt was a sick dread in the pit of his stomach.

"Is something wrong, my lord?"

"Luke," he said, wondering even as he did why he'd told Organa. "He is in danger."

Organa bolted up out of his chair with an expression of the utmost alarm. "You're sure?"

Vader's sole answer was to spin around and head for the door. He stopped just before he reached for the control panel.

Organa.

If he left without resolving this matter, Luke and the twins would be in no less danger than they were now! The dark lord clenched his fists furiously. He could not afford to rush through these negotiations with the upstart senator—there was far too much at stake. Yet neither could he afford to delay even a single moment in fleeing back to Bast Castle—with the _Executor_ he could make good time, a few days at most—

He snarled again beneath the mask. This was foolishness. It was impossible that he could reach Vjun quickly enough to protect his children from whatever threat faced them. The sudden, unexplained move would only serve to arouse the Emperor's suspicion. He had no alternative but to rely on the prowess of Captain Landre and the resident security forces.

It was not a thought he relished.

Grimly, Vader unclenched his fists, forced his body to submit to the breathing regulator, and turned back around to face Organa. "It is not serious," he said levelly. "My initial assessment was…imprecise."

Organa settled back in his chair, relief tangible. Of course. If Luke were to die, Organa's security from Vader's rage would die as well. A violent surge of helpless fury welled up in him. The walls of the safe room creaked ominously in reply, and thin cracks appeared in the paint finish. The thought of Luke and the little twins gave Vader just enough control to wrestle his rage into submission for the moment and turn his attention back to the negotiations.

But by all nine hells and the powers of darkness and chaos, Organa would_ pay_ for this one day!

…

The part of the castle that Ferus and Leia had entered didn't seem to be the most popular part. Despite—or maybe because of—the shrieking alarms, their only company as they pushed further inward (other than the patrol squad they had stunned) were a few frazzled maintenance droids, none of which had either the artificial intelligence or the motivation to notice them. Ferus was becoming more and more convinced that it was entirely too convenient a situation to be true.

But then they found a computer terminal, and Ferus took the opportunity to summon up a map of the castle. It quickly became clear why this part of the castle was deserted: there was but one turbolift that accessed the all-important top floor, located in the core of the building. The security forces were doubtless converging in that direction, hoping to trap whatever intruders had arrived in the center of the complex.

Ferus scowled at the map. Just as he'd thought—too good to be true.

"What is it?" Leia demanded.

"There's only one lift to the top floor, where we need to go," he told her. "That's where all the security is."

Leia understood immediately. "We're never going to get up there," she muttered in defeat.

Ferus took a step back from the floating holographic display, considering. "I wouldn't say that," he remarked. He reached out and tapped at a section of the map, magnifying the nearest turbolift and its surroundings. "We'll take this one up as far as possible," he announced.

"And then what?" Leia shot back scornfully. "Bash a hole in the ceiling?"

Ferus shrugged. "Why not?"

…

Luke had just edged out into the corridor, blaster clutched in one hand and lightsaber in the other, when he heard the slap of stealthily approaching footsteps. In a flash he ducked back into Miyr's room, pressing himself against the wall, chest muscles shivering in the effort to control his breathing. The footsteps grew a little louder, but never that loud—then the noise began to fade, down the corridor in the opposite direction from the turbolift and security checkpoint. When he couldn't hear them anymore, Luke worked up the nerve to slip back outside—it took a lot of nerve, because he could tell that that coolly focused presence was not very far away from him.

He could hardly believe that the troll hadn't sensed him—although he'd forgotten just how good he'd been at hiding his presence in the Force. Luke sealed his shields down even tighter and started slowly down the corridor, following the enemy. Force knew he never wanted to be within ten lightyears of that lethal green maniac ever again for the rest of his life—but it had Han and Sara and Sandra, and he could hardly leave them to face the demon troll on their own. Right now, he was the best chance they had. So he followed, even though his leg muscles felt like mashed gel cubes, and it wasn't long before his senses led him to the door of—

A maintenance closet?

Luke swallowed hard, apologized to everybody he could think of for everything he'd ever done that he wasn't supposed to ever do, and then pressed the activation button and ignited his lightsaber and fired a stun blast and closed his eyes tight all at once—waiting for the troll's lightsaber to hack through him just like one of the droids…

Nothing happened. Warily Luke opened his eyes and saw—more nothing. The cleaning equipment was a bit singed from the stun blast, but otherwise the closet was as empty as it could be.

In fact it was even _more_ empty than it could be. Where the floor should have been filling it, there was a gaping hole—plenty big enough for not only a lightsaber-wielding green demoniac troll, but also a standard-size Corellian street rat.

Luke thought about it—a lot less than he should have, in retrospect—and jumped down through the hole, lightsaber and blaster blazing. He'd barely landed when something lurched forward out of the shadows of the darkened space around him. Something with a glowing lightsaber.

Luke whipped his blade into a block, snapped the blaster up wildly, and fired for his life.

…

Ferus shoved Leia hastily back around the corner into the shadows, held a hand to his lips. She froze as another patrol marched past them, headed for the turbolift they'd just exited. Ferus felt his nerves tingle with adrenaline, but yet again he had reason to send the designer of the Imperial Army uniforms a thank-you note: the stormtroopers' helmets kept them from noticing the intruders. They passed without pause. Once he'd heard the lift door seal behind them, the fugitive Jedi guided his young charge back out into the main corridor.

Still, Ferus Olin wasn't nearly as edgy as he'd been during every other brush he'd had with Imperial forces since the Republic's death. He could feel the _rightness_ of this in every cell. The Force was flowing around him, whispering confirmation—he and Leia were supposed to be here, right now, doing exactly this. He had faith that both of them would be kept safe, whatever the going odds were against a successful infiltration of an Imperial fortress.

Although the alarms were still wailing, this floor was otherwise very quiet. From the looks of it, it was always a quiet floor—all of the lights seemed to be kept permanently on a dimmed setting, surely to conserve energy. Ferus felt fairly secure moving down the main corridor, especially now that they'd seen the patrol unit for the area. Still, it was a relief when they were able to turn off of it down a smaller hall that would lead them closer to the brightness on the top floor.

Especially since this smaller hall was completely darkened. Apparently it was never used. Only the occasional guidance glowpoint cast its faint green aura out against the walls. As they progressed down the hall, the light from the main corridor faded away, along with the raucous clamor of the alarms. They turned a bend, and even the green glowpoints vanished. Everything was silent…

Ferus stopped in his tracks.

It was silent.

No alarms. No emergency lights.

It was not considered very appropriate for a Jedi to swear, particularly not in front of young impressionable princesses, but Ferus did it anyway, under his breath, and whisked Leia to the side of the hallway. With a sharp thought he ordered her to keep as silent as she possibly could, then hurried her far away from even the faint light behind the bend.

Someone had cut all power to this hallway, or at least this section of the hallway. And until Ferus knew who it was, he certainly did not want that someone knowing who _he_ was, and especially not that he and Leia were here. When he was sure that they were completely ensconced within blackness, he let go of the princess' hand and pried his lightsaber out of the blaster holster. He quickly undid the buttons on the confining uniform jacket and pulled it off, tying the sleeves around his waist, and stuffed the cap into a pocket. If there was something unfriendly up ahead—such as whoever had arrived in the mysterious ship ahead of them—he wanted his full range of movement available, and in this darkness a disguise was pointless anyway.

When he was good and ready, they started forward again, following Ferus' senses towards the bright presences just above them. He wanted to get as close as possible before slicing out a makeshift door through the ceiling—otherwise they'd be liable to run into unwanted company. Cautiously he stretched his thoughts a little further, trying to discern some sort of definition to those presences, pick out individuals—

There was a sudden yank at his arm, pulling him against the wall. It was Leia. A flash flood of warning poured down on his mind from her. Before he could ask why, he caught a faint noise ahead.

If it hadn't been for Leia, they would have been caught by the lone stormtrooper who suddenly passed by. The low-key whine of repulsorlifts informed him that the trooper had some sort of equipment crate with him. Probably a power tech checking out the system failure…

Ferus squeezed Leia's hand to communicate thanks, and allowed himself a brief moment of wonder at the keenness of her senses, even untrained as they were. When they saw the silhouettes of the trooper and floating equipment crate pass around the bend in the hall, they began moving forward again. There was another bend in the tunnel—and then, quite suddenly, they were right beneath the bright presences. The mismatched pair stopped, and Ferus took a moment to confirm their proximity to the bright Force presences before holstering his blaster and gripping his lightsaber with both hands. He looked up towards the ceiling to start cutting—

Just in time to see a sudden flash of light erupt right through it. A blaster fired. Once more he hissed curses and pushed Leia against the wall, until they were safely in the shadows. A rough, jagged circle of light appeared on the floor of the corridor, gleaming through a gaping hole that somebody _else _had already cut through the ceiling with a vibro-saw. Right after the blaster discharge and the light appearance, a shadow painted itself across it.

There was no way that whoever it was could miss a gaping, man-sized hole in the floor when it was right at his feet. Not even a stormtrooper. Ferus shifted his grip grimly on the lightsaber. Of course nobody would be so stupid as to blindly jump down through a random hole in the floor without knowing what might be lurking beneath, but if this somebody _was_ that stupid, he couldn't be allowed to breathe long enough to tell his commander what he'd seen.

The next moment, in defiance of all logic, the light from the hole was eclipsed, and there was a definitive _thud_ on the floor, and Ferus didn't have a choice. In one smooth motion he ignited the lightsaber and stepped forward, resigned to the necessary kill—

But—impossibly!—the enemy batted his blade aside with his _own_ lightsaber. There was no chance for reaction. Ferus barely had time to hear the crack of a blaster discharging before his consciousness collapsed under a tidal wave of blue.

…

Leia almost shrieked as two blades of light suddenly appeared and flashed against each other, spitting sparks—and then concentric circles of blue stun rings erupted and she heard Master Olin fall. Something dangerous and desperate sparked in her then, overriding her fear for the first time since entering the castle. She lurched forward and instinctively found the blaster in Master Olin's holster, and she tore it out and snapped it up to fire at the figure—

But the other person stumbled forward into the faint light coming from the hole in the ceiling, and Leia gasped.

"Luke?"

The other frowned and held forth his shimmering blue lightsaber. "Hey…you're that princess, aren't you?"

She nodded. Slowly both of them lowered their blasters. "What are you _doing_ here?" Leia demanded in a fierce whisper.

Luke scowled. "What am _I _doing here?" he retorted indignantly. "How about what are _you_ doing here?"

"Rescuing you!" she exclaimed, still whispering.

Luke stared as if he'd never heard the word _rescue_ before in his life. "Why?"

Leia stared right back. "You're trapped in Darth Vader's fortress," she said slowly. Wasn't that obvious?

But Luke Solo only frowned at her. "What made you think _that_?"

"Your message!" Leia burst out. "Ferus said you and Han had been kidnapped by Vader and so we came here to get you out!" She glanced at the collapsed Jedi. "And then you shot Ferus!" she added accusingly, pointing.

"Who the freakin' stang is _he_?" Luke demanded. It was definitely not the green troll.

"He's Ferus Olin, he's a Jedi—"

"A _Jedi_?"

"_Yes_!"

"What's a Jedi doing _here_?"

"We're rescuing you, you nerfherder!"

"I don't need anybody rescuing _me_!" Luke hissed back. "I gotta find Han and my sisters, they're ones we have to rescue!"

"Sisters? I thought you just had a brother! And I thought you two didn't have any parents! And you do _so_ need to be rescued, you're a prisoner in Darth Vader's castle! He kills Jedi like you! And what did you mean about that astromech—hey! Let go! Let go of me!"

Luke had grabbed her by the hand and was running down the corridor. "I don't have time to answer questions, I gotta save Han and my sisters!" he hissed. "Did you see an ugly green troll running this way?"

"What? No!"

Luke stopped. "You didn't see anybody this way?" he demanded in a fierce whisper.

"No, just a stormtrooper with a crate, but I thought you didn't _have_ any—stop it!" Luke was off running again. "Stop! We can't leave Ferus back there, somebody will—and you're not answering any of my questions!" She twisted her arm furiously as they raced back down the hall, around the bend where the glowpoints were still lit.

With a stifled sound of exasperation, Luke stopped and whirled to face her. "My name is Luke Skywalker, Vader is my father, I have two little sisters, Han's not my brother, who _cares_ about the astromech, a crazy green assassin troll just kidnapped Han and my sisters, and I gotta find him before he gets away! Now come on!"

Leia was so stunned that she followed him in gape-mouthed silence all the way back to the turbolift.

…

No stormtroopers had yet made it to the violated inner corridors of Lord Vader's private chambers, but if they had, they would surely have been astounded to see the door to the dark lord's dueling salle spontaneously warp, fold over on itself and explode out of the doorframe with a cacophony of metallic shrieks and spitting sparks. Smoke billowed out and severed droid limbs skidded across the deck plating. Water and flame-retardant foam began spitting out of jets set into the ceiling, raining all over the short, solitary, somewhat singed shape that emerged from the smoking portal.

Master Yoda, for all that the clinging puffs of foam made him look like some sort of miniature Father Lifeday, was exhibiting none of the jollity characteristic of the festive holiday icon.

"See _now_, do you, why away from his father's influence the boy must be taken?" snapped the drenched, foam-encrusted Jedi Master.

Obi-Wan, his ghostly form serenely unaffected by the bombardment from above or the flames behind, was wise enough not to comment. "I suppose you'll make _me_ explain that mess," he muttered instead.

"Kill you a second time, he cannot," Yoda pointed out tersely, and without further comment he leapt back through the open grate in the ceiling, leaving a trail of airborne foam in his wake.

Obi-Wan glanced ruefully at the wreckage. "I daresay that's not going to stop him from trying…"

…

When Han came to, all he could see was a whole lot of nothing. It was pitch black, wherever _it_ was. He tried to stretch himself out, sit up, but promptly ran into walls in almost every direction, except for a couple in which he ran into something softer. There was a yelp from one of those directions—a very high, little kid-ish sounding yelp.

"Han?" somebody whimpered.

He tried to bolt upright again, and succeeded in slamming his head into one of the walls. "Sara?"

"No!" the voice said indignantly. "I'm _Sandra_."

Han scowled. "Well, sorry already. Where _is_ this?"

She sniffled. "I dunno."

Han twisted around as much as he could, reaching around to feel the walls. "Some kinda box," he muttered. His hand ran across fine hair. "That you?"

"Uh-uh, over _here_."

Han fell back into place with a groan. So Sara was here too, still out cold. Stuck in a box with the two twerplings. The only worse scenario he could imagine was being stuck in a box with their dad.

"Han, what's we gonna do?" Sandra whimpered.

Han took the only course of action he really could from such cramped quarters. "Hey! Somebody! _Hey_!" Sandra started yelling too, practically in his ear, but Han would put up with anything that might get him out of this. He twisted his other arm out from underneath the unseen lump that was probably Sara and started pounding on the walls for good measure.

It was a while before he realized that the noise they made seemed to be warping, like it was shriveling up before it ever got out of the box. He flailed around with his hands some more, accidentally hitting Sandra before his fingers discovered that there were a couple of other things in the box besides him and the twerplings. One of the devices had a handle and some controls on it—Han recognized a vibro-saw when he felt one. The other one had an unfamiliar shape, but he was willing to bet it was a silencer of some kind.

"Nobody's gonna hear us," he muttered, falling back yet again.

Sandra's whimpers started to sound suspiciously like sobs. Han reached around awkwardly until he could get hold of her hand.

"I want Dadda," she wailed miserably.

Right about now, Han wouldn't have minded seeing Daddy Dearest either, as long as he got them out of this blasted box. He patted Sandra's hand kinda self-consciously. Not that he was admitting he _liked_ the kid—he just didn't wanna share a box with a squalling toddler. Yeah, that was it.

"Hey, it's gonna be okay," he said.

"Promise?" she sniffled.

"Uh…yeah. Yeah, I promise." He didn't have any idea if it was gonna be okay or not, but no sense tellin' _her_ that. If they were in it, they were in it together, he guessed. Shoot, he didn't even know what had happened to Luke, or where they were, or who'd stuck them in a box, or if Vader'd ever find out what had happened, or anything, but at least he wasn't by himself. That was a good thing, right?

"Stop thinkin' so loud," Sandra snuffed.

Han scowled again. On second thought, maybe by himself _would_ have been better.

It was a few minutes before Sara started moving where she was squished up against his side. After the initial near-hysterics, Han managed to calm her down, and the twerplings actually did a bit better once both of them were awake. But he only had a couple minutes to enjoy that fact before the box suddenly dropped like a rock and hit dirt, and all three of them yelled as their heads slammed into the top of the box and each other.

A second later he yelled again as the lid of the box suddenly vanished and a flash flood of light blinded him. Swearing piecemeal from all the languages he'd heard running around the streets of Coronet, Han bolted up with the vibro-saw in hand, just in time to be knocked really, really hard upside the head. He fell head-first out of the box, dropping the vibro-saw and swearing even harder, to the tune of amused laughter. When he could see, he looked up and his eyes beheld something he'd never expected to witness.

Directly overhead stood a stormtrooper. Without his helmet on. Laughing. Han saw his stolen comlink resting on the guy's belt.

_What the nine hells?_

Still chuckling, the guy fired a stun bolt into the box, and Sara and Sandra's terrified wailing cut off instantly. He turned casually to point the blaster at Han, still grinning and shaking his head. "I'd have bet Vader wouldn't care to hear you swearing like a spacer," he commented. "Maybe I'm doing him a favor taking you off his hands."

"Wait!" Han shouted. "You're _kidnapping_ us?"

"Isn't that obvious?" The stormtrooper fiddled for a second with the intensity gauge. "Settle down, you're no good to me dead," he remarked conversationally. "But it's a long jump ahead and I don't need the three of you giving me any trouble."

A sudden panic blazed to life in Han's gut. "You can't kidnap me!" he yelled.

"I just did," the trooper pointed out. He raised the blaster back up, adjustments finished.

"No, I've got a tracking device!" Han yelled desperately.

The man paused. "Tracking device."

"You take me away from the castle, I explode," Han informed him, getting angry all over again as he remembered the particulars. Never in a million years had he expected the slave implant to _save_ his life. But now the guy couldn't kidnap him without killing him, and he'd already said Han was worthless to him dead…

"Well," said the trooper cheerfully, "then I'm glad we had this conversation."

_Just like that?_

"Guess I'll have to stick you in the cryo chamber," the other continued. "That should short circuit the implant without killing you."

"_What_?" Han yelled. "You can't freeze me alive—"

"Goodnight." Blue rings flashed again, and blackness overwhelmed him.

…

Leia had a thousand questions running through her mind wildly, but she was too stunned to say anything, and increasingly too out of breath. Luke Solo—Skywalker?—was tearing through halls like a maniac, mysteriously retracing exactly the path she and Ferus had taken even though she never told him where to turn. The only pause she had came briefly in the turbolift.

"What do you mean, your name isn't Luke Solo?" she finally panted.

"It's a pseudonym. I couldn't use my _real_ name."

"Why not?"

"Long story."

Then the lift doors were opening and they were running again. Luke didn't stop running until they emerged onto the landing platform. In a few more seconds they burst through the cloaking shields, and Leia could see both the freighter she'd arrived in and the mysterious, unmarked Imperial shuttle. Scarcely had it appeared to them, though, before the engines revved and the ship lifted off.

"No!" The shout burst helplessly out of Luke. Leia watched him fire a few shots hopelessly at the departing shuttle, to no avail. It sped away angling up out of the atmosphere, quickly vanishing behind its cloaking shield.

"C'mon!" Luke yelled. He dragged her behind him up the ramp of Ferus' freighter and practically threw her into the co-pilot's seat. Thoroughly dazed, Leia watched him start the engines. A few minutes later, they were soaring upwards, away from the castle, hot on the tail of the Imperial shuttle they couldn't see.

"How do you know where you're going?" she murmured.

"I can sense that guy," Luke said fiercely. "He's not gonna get away from me!"

…

Yoda made very quick time back through the ventilation shafts, using the Force to boost his speed as he chased the rapidly moving presence of young Luke Skywalker down through the levels of the building. The two Jedi Masters finally caught a glimpse of their quarry when they reached the landing platform. Luke was firing at a departing Imperial shuttle, but the next instant he grabbed the hand of the brown-haired girl beside him and ran with her up the ramp of the other ship resting on the platform.

Obi-Wan hesitated, but Yoda had no memories of stowaway missions gone awry to plague him. The aging Jedi Master scurried surreptitiously up the ramp of the battered freighter and tucked himself into a closet on one of the corridors—plenty spacious enough for a diminutive being such as Yoda.

Obi-Wan joined him on the floor, glaring pointedly. "That was some rescue." A hum began in the floor—the ship was lifting off.

Yoda, although still wet and speckled with flecks of flame-retardant foam, nonetheless looked satisfied. "Achieved, the goal of the mission is," he observed. "Removed from his father's reach, young Skywalker is. And interfere, I did not. Satisfied you should be."

Obi-Wan scowled anyway. "You do realize who is on this ship _with_ him."

"Troubling, that is," Yoda murmured.

"What is Leia doing here?" Obi-Wan wondered. "She's supposed to be on Alderaan!"

"Capture her, Vader did not. Arrived another way, the princess did."

"But how?"

To that question, not even Yoda had the answer.

…

_Someone_, Captain Landre thought grimly, _is going to regret playing with my security systems._

The passcodes on the security checkpoint to the top floor had, impossibly, been changed. From the terminal on the inside, or else the tech specialists would have been able to retrieve the changes from the computer on _this_ side. The frenzied captain had ordered a demolition team in, and they'd only just succeeded in blowing out the door. Squadrons of stormtroopers flooded into the top floor, and now reports were flowing into the castle control room. Landre listened tersely.

"Target breached, repeat, target breached—"

"Team Two to Lord Vader's quarters, perform recon—"

"I've found the administrator, she has been stunned, repeat, the administrator has been stunned—"

"Lord Vader's quarters breached, performing recon—"

"Fire damage to corridor two, repeat, severe fire damage in corridor two—"

"Room 008 is completely burned out, I'm reading multiple explosions—"

"We've got activated fire-retardant systems—"

"Looks like explosives, that door was completely blown out of the wall—"

"Ventilation system has been tampered with, sir—"

Captain Landre blew out a stiffly measured breath. This was _bad_. "Team Two, check Wings Three and Four for occupants," he ordered.

"Affirmative, sir. Detachment One to Wing Three, move!—"

"Roger, sir—"

"Weapons damage, sir, check out this—"

"Captain, someone's hacked through from the lower level, went up through the floor in Maintenance Room 5003—"

"The administrator is coming around, repeat, the administrator is coming to—"

"Security blaster missing from the administrator's quarters, sir—"

"Captain, Team Two reporting. Wings Three and Four are unoccupied, repeat, Wings Three and Four are unoccupied. Detachment Two progressing to castle safe room—"

"Sir, there's somebody down here—"

"Detachment Two entering safe room—"

"Captain, Team Three has located an armed intruder near the security breach in Maintenance Room 5003. He appears to have been stunned—"

"Captain, Team Two reporting. Castle safe room is unoccupied. Repeat, the castle safe room and Lord Vader's quarters are unoccupied."

Landre sank down into his command chair, feeling tingles run through his fingers and a knife in his gut, imagining the sensation of his throat closing from within—if indeed Lord Vader extended such a quick manner of death to the man who had failed to protect his children. "Commence a general search of the castle," he ordered harshly.


	35. Frights, Fights and Flights

Author's Note: Terribly sorry to be such a lazy updater. You really would not believe how busy I've been all summer. And now I'm gearing up to fly back to school and start the new semester, so I'm afraid the next update isn't likely to be any faster. I've still got my ideas in mind…but sometimes the muses sort of leave me in the lurch anyway and I can't write them out, or I just don't have time. Anyway, here's a new chapter at long last! Hopefully you'll all enjoy…don't forget, lots of reviews make me excited to write, and I tend to write faster when I'm excited about it. (winks) Speaking of reviews, thank you to all my anonymous reviews. I can't reply to you, but I appreciate you very much. :)

…

Upon waking, Ferus' first thought was, _Where the nine hells am I?_

A few seconds later, he had realized it could only be an Imperial detention cell. He was dangling within a humming blue stasis field, his body leaning forward at an awkward angle, hands and feet kept firmly in place by magnetic cuffs. They needn't have bothered, he though irritably—the stasis field was on such high power that he couldn't so much as twitch his nose or flick his hair out of his eyes, let alone crane his head around to view the rest of the cell. He was forced to take his surroundings in as the stasis field slowly rotated. There wasn't much to see. The field was built into the middle of the small room. There was a narrow bench on one side, and a heavy bunker-grade door on the other. Walls, a low ceiling, and a permacrete floor framed the rest of the cell.

Minutes passed. The lights overhead gave an occasional flicker. There was a hair tickling the side of his nose, making itself harder to ignore with every interminable second…

The door suddenly hissed open at his back, and Ferus tightened as he heard footsteps, but he was forced to wait some seconds before the rotation finally brought him face to face with a glowering officer in full uniform—the selfsame uniform that Ferus realized he was still wearing in a decidedly un-regulation style. The man (a captain, if Ferus read his insignia correctly) was looking none too lenient. His lips pursed into a thin, angry line, he halted the rotation of the stasis field and regarded Ferus with crossed arms.

"I cannot promise you that cooperation will save your life," he began coldly, "but Lord Vader may perhaps be inclined to grant you a more merciful form of death if you do so."

"The Empire hands out the death sentence for trespassing now?" Ferus remarked with a good deal more nonchalance than he felt.

The captain offered him a humorless smile. "The Empire abides by Lord Vader's judgment. Particularly in those matters pertaining to his own household. Were I you, I would be quite eager to abate the severity of that judgment in any way possible."

"Well, if I'm Vader's problem, I suppose you'll have to wait until he gets home," Ferus shot back.

The captain's eyes narrowed at the revelation that the prisoner knew something of the dark lord's whereabouts. "I assure you, I am fully authorized to act in Lord Vader's stead," he said. "I suggest that you answer my questions, unless you wish to make an intimate acquaintance of our interrogation officers."

Ferus kept his cocky smile, but felt his stomach tighten with cold dread. This officer didn't seem to be the type to bluff. And Vader certainly had it in him to maintain a band of torturers. Perhaps he'd let them practice on Luke Solo…

Ferus had already figured out that it must have been none other than the captured Jedi Padawan who had jumped through the ceiling and stunned him. In fact, he suspected that was why the alarms had been screaming—the boy must have been trying to make an escape, and had been so startled by Ferus' presence that he had shot on pure reflex. He could only pray that both the children had managed to evade capture.

Given the captain's evident anger, he suspected that they had.

In which case, he had best stop worrying about Luke and Leia and start worrying about himself, as his situation would appear to be worse by far. "What sort of questions did you have in mind?" he said in a more mollifying tone. The subservience grated on him, but it was, at least, the last thing anybody would expect from a Jedi…

"Let's start with a name," the captain said with a cold smile.

"Any name?"

"Yours." Given the danger in the man's tone, Ferus decided it would not be in his best interests to continue being insolent.

"Jax," he said, falling back on one of his many aliases.

"Jax what?"

"Andru."

The captain gave him another thin, icy smile. "A bit warlike for an Alderaanian, aren't you?"

Ferus winced inside. Blast it! Andru was as peace-loving-Alderaanian a name as they came—he should have gone with his Corellian alias—_Ferus, you _idiot_, start _thinking—

"Never was a very good Alderaanian," he said flippantly. It was too late to switch vectors.

"Nor a very good citizen," the captain agreed, with another of those smiles that Ferus was sure boded nothing good for him. "Although," the man continued, "I suspect you are a most remarkable liar. Desbar!"

A subordinate lieutenant stepped briskly forward from behind his commander's shoulder. "Sir?"

"Report to the control room and run a full search for one Andru, Jax," the captain ordered. "Image and genetic matching included." He produced a syringe from one of his uniform pockets and stabbed it somewhat vengefully into Ferus' stasis-trapped arm, drawing out a full vial of blood, which was transferred to the lieutenant. The captain turned back to his prisoner with baleful eyes. "I trust we shall soon continue our conversation, Mr. Andru," he said softly.

Ferus scrounged up the most respectfully nonchalant smile he could contrive. "Looking forward to it, sir," he rejoined, in a tone that was just a shade too mild to be called mocking.

The captain bestowed on him another glower veiled in a smile, and left Ferus to hang helplessly in the air, waiting for them to blow his concocted identity out of space, and wondering how in the galaxy he was going to make it out of this one alive.

…

Leia couldn't remember a time when she'd wanted to scream more than right now. But no screams could get out—the ship was ripping up through the atmosphere so fast that she didn't need any crash webbing to keep her plastered against the seat back. Instead she clutched frantically at the armrests, swiveling her eyes around the cockpit as best she could with her head seemingly welded into place. She couldn't budge a muscle—in terror, the young princess realized that they must be going too fast for the compensators and anti-gravity generators to keep up with them. Her tongue worked, trying to tell Luke to slow down, but she couldn't get any sounds out, and from the maniac look in Luke's eyes, he probably wouldn't listen anyhow.

Leia relaxed a little as the atmosphere gave way to black space and the pressure of the planet's gravity vanished—but just when she felt sure the stress factors weren't going to physically rip the freighter apart, Luke let loose with freighter's cannons, blasting away at vacant space ahead of them. She was so shocked she forgot to yell—until, that was, return fire rocked the freighter violently.

Luke said something that sounded very uncivilized in a language she didn't know, took a quick glance at the scanners, and yelled something in Basic that she _knew_ was very uncivilized.

"_What_?" she screamed at him.

"It's the krethin' destroyers!" Luke yelled back. "That blast knocked out the cloaking shield!"

Leia stared at the scanners, saw to her horror that the Imperial Star Destroyers standing guard over the system had honed in on them. The com system crackled to life. "Unidentified freighter, stand down immediately or you will be destroyed!" an officer's voice ordered sharply over the speakers.

Luke leaned over and switched off the com.

"_What are you doing?!!"_ Leia shrieked. She lunged forward to switch the com back on—there was no way this ridiculous boy was going to make it past a whole Navy battalion! They had to surrender or they'd die, and Leia for one didn't feel like—

Luke spun the ship into a wickedly sharp roll, flinging Leia across the cockpit away from the com unit, and fired again at empty space, clear the opposite direction from the approaching Star Destroyers. Great green beams of killing energy followed them, and Leia was hurled against the walls every which way as Luke twisted, rolled, plunged into nosedives to escape the blasts. Dazed, she somehow managed to stagger back into her seat, the com forgotten. Too late for that by far.

"No, no, no, _no_!" Luke's shouts grew progressively more desperate, he fired the cannons like a madman, gunned the engines—Leia screamed as a last burst of energy revealed the strange Imperial shuttle, saw that it was on course to collide with them in seconds—

The ship suddenly altered its vector by a few degrees—a corona of blue light appeared around its aft.

"_NO!" _Luke let off several more bursts of fire, aiming for the hyperdrive, but he was too late—the next instant, the shuttle vanished into hyperspace, and the laser blasts scorched through nothing but vacuum.

Well—that wasn't quite accurate. Although there _was_ vacuum where the shuttle had previously been, a few klicks behind that position the lasers found a convenient target in the form of an incoming TIE fighter. The snub ship exploded as the blasts struck it full on.

Luke stared in horror out the viewport for a second, but recovered quickly enough to wrench their feeble freighter out of the line of a fire of another TIE. "My father is going to _kill_ me," he muttered.

"_I'm_ going to kill you!" Leia shouted at him furiously. Another blast from the destroyers slapped the freighter to the side—"Assuming they don't beat me to it!" she added.

For a few more seconds, Luke wove the ship desperately, miraculously managing to evade the worst of the fire. Then he reached over and began punching at the controls to her console, flying with one hand. "Plug in these numbers!" he yelled at her. "44-1-22-1-44!"

Leia feverishly did as she was told, just to make sure he'd fly the ship with both hands. "Done!"

Luke lurched forward just as the freighter was struck from behind and pulled back the hyperspace lever. The ship exploded forward into silent hyperspace.

Both of them slumped back in their chairs, for very different reasons. Leia felt nothing but relief—yet she could almost feel the fear and frustration rolling off of Luke and splashing against her skin like cold acid. It was some minutes before she dared ask, "Where are we going?"

"Corellia," Luke said in monotone.

She waited some minutes more before venturing, "Why?"

"Cause they were the only coordinates along that vector that I remembered."

"What vector?"

"The one that shuttle took." Luke twisted his hands on the armrests, then leaned forward decisively and brought up the computer display from his console. "Gotta run calculations and see where else he maybe went," he muttered, more to himself than to Leia.

Leia was suddenly very, very angry. She jerked her hand out and switched off the computer display. He turned sharply—she pointed her finger at him. "Don't you even," she hissed. "You tell me what's going on, _right_ now. I'm not going anywhere else until I know what's going on!"

Luke slowly settled back, his intense blue eyes never leaving her, an inscrutable expression on his face. "Okay," he muttered.

"What do you mean, Vader's your father?" she snapped at him.

Luke scowled—it might have been meant for himself. "What do you think? He's my father, that's what I mean!"

"He _can't_ be your father!" she shouted. "He's a murderer! He hunts people, tortures prisoners—he even killed children, Ferus told me!"

A spark of anger came into Luke's eyes, albeit muted by the fact that she'd said nothing untrue. "That doesn't mean he's not my father," he said fiercely. "Besides," he added in a mutter, "you don't really know him."

Leia stared at him. "Everybody knows what Darth Vader is like," she told him coldly. "Why do you think everyone is so scared of him?"

Luke only turned his blue gaze away, out the viewport. "You wouldn't understand," he said implacably.

Leia huffed in frustration. "If you're really his son, how come you were trying to run away from the Empire?"

"I didn't know he was my father," Luke murmured.

"But Ferus said you were just a Jedi apprentice that Vader kidnapped," she reasoned. "Maybe he's lying to you."

"He doesn't lie to people," Luke said in a strange voice.

"How do you know?"

"I just know."

Leia fought down her frustration. "I guess that's some Jedi trick?"

"Sort of." He turned a curious look on her. "You know a lot more about Jedi than most people."

"I told you. Ferus is a Jedi." Leia felt another pang for having left the Jed Knight behind in the castle—but that was what he had told her to do. What he would have wanted her to do. _You did the right thing, Leia_.

"So how come your dad wants you hanging around with a Jedi?" Luke fired back shrewdly. "That's pretty dangerous for a princess, isn't it?"

Leia's mouth opened and snapped shut a few times. She was very sure that neither her father nor Master Olin would want her spreading the word that she was Force-sensitive, especially not to a person who claimed to be _Darth Vader's son_, but Luke had sent her father a message to warn him and had told her about himself, so she supposed it was only fair to repay him in kind. "Daddy sent me away," she said shortly. "They think I could be a Jedi too."

There came into Luke's eyes sudden alarm. "Is your dad all right?" he asked urgently.

Leia suddenly fell back into her seat, fighting tears. "I don't know," she choked. "They said that—that Vader would be coming to Alderaan."

Luke shifted nervously. "I did everything I could," he said helplessly.

Leia looked at Luke with new eyes, realizing just whom Luke had been defying when he sent that message to Alderaan. _You can't tell anybody else, or I swear, my father will kill me…_ "That was very brave of you," she murmured, wiping away the few tears that had escaped her control.

Luke fiddled awkwardly with his fingernails. "I owe your dad," he muttered. An ungainly silence seemed to be stretched tight between them for several minutes.

"You said you have two little sisters?" Leia finally asked.

He nodded. "Didn't know about them either," he said. "They're only about three, they're twins."

"And somebody kidnapped them? The stormtrooper we saw with the crate?"

Luke nodded.

"Who would kidnap them?"

Luke shook his head. "I thought it was the green troll, but it must be somebody else. Maybe someone was working with the troll."

"Wait a second—the green troll?"

Luke told her the fantastic, frightening tale of the demon troll's attack.

"He wasn't a Jedi?" Leia mused.

Luke screwed up his face in a scowl. "Of course not. Jedi don't try to assassinate people! Even Obi-Wan was trying to help me get away! I think he must have distracted it."

"Obi-Wan?"

Luke grimaced. "Save it for another story." He'd rather not tell that one right now, especially not with Corellia getting closer by the lightyears.

"And these assassins kidnapped Han too?"

"Yeah." Luke worked his tongue around his dry mouth, tried to swallow as he stared hopelessly out the viewport. It seemed almost too much to hope that Han could have somehow survived being taken out of the shield range around Bast Castle, what with the tracer chip planted into his brain—but Luke hadn't sensed him die, so he had to hope that Han was still alive and kicking.

He couldn't stand to even contemplate any other possibility. The others all hurt too much, and Luke didn't know if he could take losing somebody that he loved another time. He didn't want to find out, either.

"What were you doing in Bast Castle?" he asked Leia, all too eager to change the subject.

His query was rewarded with a lengthy explanation of what had transpired in the Organa household after the upheaval of his call from the shuttle. Apparently, it all came down to the fact that Ferus Olin had thought that Jedi Master Yoda might be on Vjun and had come with Leia looking for him.

"But you said Jedi wouldn't try to assassinate someone, so I guess the green troll-thing couldn't have been him," Leia finished.

Luke thought the idea was laughable, although he had to admit that the demon troll would probably have given this renowned Jedi Master a run for his money had Yoda actually been there. "Wonder where he really is," Luke wondered aloud. "He'd sure be a lot of help right now."

"You know, maybe we could look for all them," Leia suggested. "Whenever we get to Corellia. If this troll is really as dangerous as you say, you'll need help getting your sisters and Han back." Not mention which, helping rescue the kidnapped children of Darth Vader would probably go a _long_ way towards making the Sith lord less angry with her father.

Luke grinned. "Sounds like a plan. Let's see where else they might have flown to, huh?"


	36. Questions Asked and Answered

Author's Note: My thanks to those of you who reviewed me, in particular you anonymous reviewers, since I can't send you replies. :P It'd be nice to hear from a few more of you readers out there, though…Anyway, I know it took me awhile, but here's your next chapter! Sorry, I know it's a bit short…more or less a connecting chapter. There's more on the way, slowly but surely. Still getting into the school year groove, I'm afraid. At any rate, hope you'll enjoy it! Tell me what you think, please…

…

Corellia was no ordinary system in the framework of the galaxy. On the purely astrographical side, the system boasted no less than five inhabitable planets, more than any other known system in the galaxy. It featured three indigenous sentient races on those five planets—in fact, many an anthropologist had hypothesized that Corellia was the home planet of the human race. Whether or not that lofty claim was the truth, Corellia was nonetheless possessed of a gem-studded galactic history second to none of the vaunted Core Worlds (except, perhaps, for Coruscant). Corellians had been among the first to venture forth into space, constructing massive space stations, discovering and developing galactic trade routes, even inventing the hyperdrive. Hundreds of thousands of years later, Corellia remained a mighty galactic attraction and a key trade system—billions visited the system every year, drawn by equally numerous reasons. Of all the features of the Corellian system, none was more central than the planet Corellia. The heart of Corellia was the capital city, Coronet, a galactic metropolis that echoed the cityscape of Coruscant. And the heart of Coronet, as any bona fide Corellian could tell you, was undoubtedly Treasure Ship Row.

Hence, of course, it was to Treasure Ship Row that an ambitious, inventive entrepreneur such as Lando Calrissian inevitably directed his steps.

Lando had been in Corellia for about two weeks now, having left Nar Shaddaa as soon as he could walk up the ramp of his ship without limping and calling down curses on Han Solo. It was, he reflected irritably, blasted lucky that he hadn't been killed jumping from Solo's landing ramp. But between jumping five meters onto permacrete and paying Darth Vader an uninvited visit, Lando would pick the jump every time. At least if you jumped, there was still chance you might live to complain about it. And live to complain about he had. Unfortunately, since Han Solo was in all likelihood strangulated worm fodder now, Lando didn't have anybody he could really complain _to_, and had been forced to get along with his life.

He was sure that if he stayed on Nar Shaddaa, the ghost of Han Solo would haunt him, merrily wrecking his every business venture—and besides that, Jabba was still pretty ticked with him over the incident of the Sienar hyperdrive. So Lando decided to move on to the next best place in the galaxy's seedy underbelly for an enterprising, creative businessman: Corellia.

The opportunities might not be _quite_ as abundant as they'd been on Nar Shaddaa, but on the whole Corellia had treated him pretty well for the last two weeks. He'd been able to work his hand into the black market on ship hardware, selling off a number of quad cannons he'd managed to dig up and turning a tidy profit; and he'd struck up an acquaintance with a Bothan, who it turned out knew another Bothan who knew a Falleen who'd found a deposit of pyrolanium in the asteroid belts of Sykos Twelve, and who was looking to set up a mining operation and needed some financial partners. By all accounts, the market for pyrolanium was really prime—according to Talon Karrde, the Empire was eating up the available supply. Which was really no wonder—the stuff was a key ingredient for super-grade reactors, and with those new Super Star Destroyers that Sienar had started churning out for the Fleet, the Emperor probably had whole teams of lowlifes scratching the pyrolanium wiring out of computer chips to keep up with demand. Not that Lando was particularly keen on helping the Empire add brass knuckles to its iron fist, but if he didn't get in on the mine somebody else would. If he had to put up with Imperial oppression, he might as well have some money to console him…

Well, he still had a few days to decide about the mining venture. In the meantime, he was doing pretty well selling second-hand information. Karrde wasn't liable to be happy if he heard Lando was selling the information he bought, and Lando himself rather liked the guy, so he made a point of not cutting too much of a slice out of Karrde's market. By and large he confined his business operations to the Lucky Saber, a rather seedy underground cantina near Treasure Ship Row that did a brisk business outside of Karrde's usual circle. He'd made an arrangement with the barkeeper there; in return for a reasonable amount of credits, the fellow let him set up shop in one of the more secluded booths and referred any inquiring customers to Lando.

Given the clientele, though, these seedy underground cantinas didn't do any business worth mentioning in the day, and therefore neither did Lando. As he had nothing better to do this afternoon, and was still mulling over that pyrolanium proposition, Lando had plunked himself down in his booth anyway. He passed his time musing, making a couple fact-checking calls to the Bothan, and nursing a stout dose of whiskey until a pair of shadows and an eerily familiar young voice interrupted him.

"Lando?" somebody said excitedly.

Lando froze, and then slowly turned his head.

Standing there plain as day was Luke, the Jedi kid that had been tagging along with Han Solo all those months ago, who'd been a whiz at dejarik and who, at last report, Han Solo had been storming off to Darth Vader's castle in order to rescue. He was a little older, but despite having been kidnapped by the single most feared Jedi killer in the galaxy seemed none the worse for wear.

Lando was entirely too floored to respond. How the nine hells had Solo pulled off a jail break from Darth Vader's house? He glanced around the cantina in disbelief—but didn't see Solo anywhere. Standing at Luke's side, where that wild-brained teenaged Corellian ought to have been, was instead a girl, probably no older than Luke, with a long dark braid and big, somewhat alarmed dark eyes.

"Who _is_ this?" she demanded in a low voice.

"A friend of mine," Luke told her. "Right?" This last was addressed to Lando.

"Uh, yeah, right," said he in a rush, finding his voice somehow. "Uh, sit down, why don't you?"

The two kids slid in the opposite side of the booth, the girl on the inside. "Didn't think I'd see you again," Lando told Luke.

Luke did not respond with the sort of ecstatic grin you'd expect from somebody who'd achieved an impossible escape from certain death. He just looked up with haunted blue eyes, and a chill ran down Lando's spine as he wondered what endured horrors had put that look there. "The bartender said you're selling information," he said instead, in a very serious voice.

Lando was yet again taken aback. "Uh, yeah, that's right," he said, and then added quickly, "but for you, no charge." He flashed both kids his most winning grin, hoping to lighten the atmosphere, cheer Luke up, but whatever was bothering the boy was too serious to be so easily abated. He nodded his thanks, but didn't get any farther as the bar droid made its appearance.

"Drinks on me," Lando said promptly. "Jawa juice for you, right, kid?"

Luke nodded again, looking just a tad less wound up. The kid really liked Jawa juice.

"And how about you, honey, the same?"

The dark-haired girl bestowed upon him a regal glare. "Bottled water, thank you," she said, rather loftily. "Preferably sealed." Lando raised his eyebrows, but relayed the order to the droid.

"So," he said as the droid wheeled off, "what sort of information do you want?" He was careful to be as professional as normal—Luke was a sharp kid, and if he was looking for an information broker Lando was pretty sure he had a good reason.

"I need you to find me a ship," the kid said. He pried a crumpled flimsy out of his jumpsuit pocket and handed it over. Lando flipped it open and found a long list of numbers—serial numbers, drive signatures, engine frequencies and emission stats, the whole bundle. On the reverse of the sheet were handwritten addendums, noting additional armaments, coloring, and so on. It wasn't long before Lando noticed a very critical fact.

"This is an Imperial shuttle," he observed, as calmly as he could.

Luke nodded.

Lando blew out a long breath. "You never ask an easy question, do you?"

Luke smiled, a slight smile, and one not very amused. "What, you can't do it?"

"I'm not saying I can't," Lando retorted. "I won't. If you want the itinerary for a Fleet ship, you have to hack into NavNet, and believe you me, that's a death sentence waiting to happen. I'm not sticking my neck out that far for anybody."

"Who said anything about NavNet?" Luke fired back. "Look at the schematics."

Lando reread the sheet more closely, and Luke leaned over to jab his finger at the scribbly handwriting. "Cannon placements, drop-down guns, cloaking shield, jacked frequencies, half-scrambled signatures. That's not Navy standards and you know it."

Lando leaned back critically. "So you think somebody stole a _lambda_ shuttle?" he asked incredulously. "That'd be about as inconspicuous as stealing a Star Destroyer, kid."

Luke was interrupted mid-scowl by a new voice. "Hold on." The two of them spun heads to the corner, where the dark-haired girl had spoken up. "You don't think it was Imperials who did it, then?"

Lando stared. "Who did what?"

Luke sucked in a breath. "Whoever was on this shuttle kidnapped Han."

Lando stared for another second and then threw the flimsy down to the tabletop in disbelief, taking a long swig of his whiskey. "Boy," he said hoarsely, "you two just get kidnapped left and right, don't you?"

Luke rolled his eyes. _Oh, like it's _my_ idea?_

"I asked a question first, thank you," the girl informed him, not sounding at all grateful.

"I don't know who did it," Luke snapped, half under his breath. The conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the server droid, with Luke's bulb of Jawa juice and the girl's water bottle. Luke seized at the Jawa juice and the excuse to avoid further questioning from his feminine companion. Lando watched with sudden interest as the girl inspected her water bottle before twisting off the cap and sipping delicately out of it. Whoever or whatever else she might be, it was quite clear that she was no guttersnipe after the stamp of Han Solo—and probably a good deal less common than anybody else of Lando's acquaintance, too.

Why in the Empire would a girl like that be hanging around seedy black market cantinas with a miniature fugitive half-Jedi?

After a long silence, Luke finally spoke up. "Lando, the only way I'm going to find Han is if I find that shuttle," he said firmly, eyes locked on the table top. "I have to find him. He came back for me."

Lando fixed a stare on the kid until Luke raised his blue gaze to meet it. "Why would anybody kidnap your friend?" he demanded.

Luke didn't back down. "I don't know who did it."

Lando stared back for another solid minute before breaking it. "All right."

"You'll find the ship?" This was from the girl.

"I can't do it," he said, "but I know a guy who can."

Luke grinned at him for the first time. "A couple other things," he said brightly.

Lando groaned.

"Have you heard of a Master Yoda?" the girl cut in.

Lando relaxed a little. Tracking down people was a few hells' worth easier than sniffing out an Imperial starcraft, and generally a lot less threatening to his health. "Name sounds a bit familiar," he said, putting on some charm again. "I'll see what I can find out."

"And while you're at it," Luke added, "there's another being we're looking for."

"Another being?"

"Yeah, there's this homicidal green troll…"

…

_Shifting. Scraping. A somewhat irritable sigh._

"A tad confined in here, don't you think?"

_Silence_.

"If you missed my point, that was more of a suggestion than an observation."

"Patience, a virtue it is."

_Pause. More scraping and shifting._

"A suggestion also, that is."

_Tangible sense of annoyance in the air…_

"Unnecessary, _this_ is!"

"My own counsel will I keep on what is necessary…"

_A decidedly more irritable sigh. Somewhat longer pause._

"You know, I _was_ a council member."

"On _was_, I believe the emphasis is."

_Even more tangible sense of annoyance…_

"Being as there's no council, your membership would also be past tense, _I _believe."

_Dignified silence. Rather intense annoyance._

"Could we at least move down to the cargo hold?"

"Incorporeal, you are. Bothered by physical constraints, you are not."

"Well, no, but the view _does_ get rather tedious after three days straight."

"Beginning to sound like your Padawan, you are…"

_Very exceedingly intense annoyance. Decided sense of amusement._

…

The negotiations with Organa were tedious—the sort of thing that had always been Padmé's forte, and not that of her husband, regardless of whatever philosophical penchants he tended towards at any particular point in his life. Sick with dread though he was, Vader dared not rush anything as dire as this. The situation was already highly unpalatable, without his worsening it through inattention that the more experienced politician would surely seize to his own advantage. Though his insides seemed to twist with agony, he forced himself to see the ordeal calmly through its several hours.

For the discussion, if he could bring himself to term it such, did indeed take a great deal of time. Organa knew perfectly well what sort of deadly high wire he was treading, and was no more willing to rush the proceedings. The outside observer might almost have thought the atmosphere leisurely.

However, Vader's haste in returning to his flagship thereafter—not to mention the rather grisly deaths that befell several unluckily positioned stormtroopers en route—would quickly have disabused any being of that notion. He barreled through the corridors of the ship, flattening passing personnel against the bulkheads with the sheer tangibility of his rage, and sealed himself within his inner sanctum, ordering the com suite to connect him to Miyr at Bast Castle.

But it was the haggard face of Captain Landre, and not that of his administrator, which appeared in the projection. "My lord," he acknowledged.

He did not seem particularly surprised. In fact, the only word for his expression was _resigned_…

"Explain," Vader demanded sharply.

Never before had Landre demonstrated anything to him save impeccable professionalism and competency. Those qualities were not now lacking—but they had been joined by something Vader had not witnessed from him before.

Dread.

To his credit—depending on his next words, possibly the last bit of credit Vader would ever attribute to the man—Landre steeled his shoulders and responded as professionally as ever.

"My lord, there has been a significant incident."

Vader waited in black silence.

"An unknown spacecraft, possibly two, penetrated both system and castle security undetected, and proceeded to infiltrate the building."

"How far did this infiltration advance?" Vader hissed softly.

"To the confines of the uppermost floor," Landre answered him. "The intruders have escaped, with the exception of one, currently being interrogated. Several of my troops were killed, and the administrator has suffered mild injuries."

Brave man though he was, he paused and swallowed before adding a final sentence.

"My lord, I am unable to locate the occupants of Wings Three and Four."


	37. The Hunt is On

Author's Note: Sorry about the long wait, everybody…hopefully this chapter will help make up, it's nice and long and things start happening. :P Not quite rip-roaring action yet, but we're almost there, I promise! Tell me what you think…

…

They were gone.

Impossible.

Such a thing was beyond _conception_. His support system's audio suite was clearly malfunctioning. Perhaps he had inadvertently slipped into meditation and was simply imagining this entire conversation.

The shock of it numbed him for a few seconds and let his reason continue to function. By that tenuous thread of rationality alone, Captain Landre clung to life when Vader's anger finally surged past the shock, so cold it burned and so burning it froze.

For such an apocalyptic, unequalled, eternally unforgivable failure as this, the thread of logic told him, his anger must wait until its object was physically within his reach. No Rebel that had ever fallen into his merciless hands had been made to wish for death so fervently as would Landre before the end. Strangulation from a distance was far, far too good for the man. He would wait, and he would _enjoy_ this.

In the hologram, Landre finally spoke. "My lord?"

Vader stared at his captain's image in raging silence. He should have killed the man the day Han Solo contrived to break into the castle.

"My lord, is the audio coming through?"

"I hear you, Captain," he hissed, "unfortunately for your sake. Consider this your final failure as commander of my security forces."

Landre's expression grew even more resigned. "I will continue the investigation of the incident until you arrive, my lord."

"The investigation would meet with better success if you assigned it to droid," Vader suggested acidly. "They, at least, may be depended upon to fulfill their duties."

Landre took it silently, without flinching. As well he should. Not that his penitence would avail him anything.

"Continue," Vader finally snapped after several seconds of dead silence.

"We have not been able to ascertain the number of intruders," Landre continued shakily. "At a minimum, there were two. As I said, we have one of them in custody. At least one unauthorized ship departed under a cloaking shield from the restricted zone planetside. I strongly suspect that there were two ships. I'm afraid this is where it becomes incomprehensible, my lord."

He waited in stony silence.

"We would not have known any ships were departing, but one opened fire."

That was indeed incomprehensible. Despite his black rage Vader mused. What would have possessed a safely cloaked ship to fire and reveal its presence?

"The ship did not open fire on Imperial craft, my lord. It appeared to be targeting another cloaked craft. Our craft opened fire on the intruder and was able to destroy its cloaking shield. It was a YV-series freighter, I believe, although heavily modified. Our TIE squadrons moved in as soon as the target was visible, but the freighter jumped into hyperspace. We believe it was on a vector for the Corellian Trade Route. I have transmitted an alert to our forces in that region."

Landre paused. "My staff has suggested that there may have been two separate intruding parties with the same target, possibly bounty hunters. In that case, my lord, I would be forced to assume that the missing persons were not on the ship that was seen."

"And what have you learned from the prisoner?" Vader demanded coldly.

"I have only had the chance for a preliminary interrogation thus far. I only recently received the background checks from my intelligence staff. Whoever he is, my lord, he is not the Alderaanian Jax Andru, as he claims. We're running a full-scale database search at the moment. We only have image and genetic data, so I'm afraid the parameters are very wide."

"Show me the image," Vader ordered him tersely.

Luckily, Landre did not keep him waiting. Vader was not sure he could have refrained from slaughtering the man then and there if the officer had not been prompt. "Transmission commencing."

In another moment the image of a wiry, haggard man hanging in a stasis field appeared on a second holoprojector. Vader was instantly struck by the sensation that he had seen him before—but it was not until the image had nearly rotated the entire way around that he saw the damning lock of blond hair laid out starkly against the dark.

In a split second, his raw, brutal rage alighted from the doom-countenanced Landre and dug its savage claws into the man in the hologram—and beyond, to a certain blue-tinged, ethereal memory.

"Kenobi," he snarled.

"My lord?"

"That man is Ferus Olin." Vader stood slowly, gaze never leaving the rotating hologram of the man in the stasis field. "You will find him listed in the database of Jedi remaining at large."

Landre jerked. "A Jedi."

"Captain," Vader said slowly, "make very sure that he does not escape."

"What methods do you suggest, my lord?"

"Call in the interrogators."

Landre stiffened.

"Make sure they paralyze his larynx beforehand," Vader added coldly. "I do not wish our conversations to be delayed in waiting for his voice to heal from excessive screaming."

"As you wish, my lord," the captain said quickly.

…

Somewhere on the outskirts of a city whose name nobody was allowed to know, there towered an abandoned skyscraper, which nobody cared about, and with good reason. It was an ancient structure, an unappetizing leftover from earlier times. The power, though surprisingly still functional, was primitive and inefficient. The windows, pre-transparisteel contrivances, were all either cracked or completely blown out, rendering the crude climate control systems utterly useless. All the rooms inside, offices and apartments alike, had been plundered by scavengers so thoroughly that only frayed edges of carpet and worthless debris remained behind.

It was unequivocally the last place one would expect to find an expansive, well-lit office filled to the brim with military-grade computers and communications suites, sealed behind a security system that could have repelled an orbital bombing assault. But with his computers humming around him and his holographic displays hard at work, the agent Baranne appeared completely oblivious to the unexpectedness of it all.

The center of the room boasted a vast display that would have done a military briefing room proud, and Baranne was hard at work over it, analyzing his latest collection of images. Yet another media holo was under the scrutiny of his sharp gray eyes—a generic shot of the Senate in session, taken some time before the start of the Clone Wars. The agent currently had it magnified and was working his way down the forty-sixth row from the bottom of the chamber, checking every face as he went.

Recognizing Senator Chem Tastree from Chandrila, he quickly scrolled the magnified image up to the fifty-ninth row. The Naboo delegation's box, as he knew very well by now, was located nearly on the opposite side of the chamber from Chandrila, and would not be in the image. However, as Baranne also knew, the Alderaanian delegation was to the upper right of Chandrila—and he couldn't count the number of times he'd hit the jackpot looking there.

This, however, was not one of those times. Neither Padmé Amidala nor Bail Organa was to be seen in Alderaan's box. Baranne calmly removed the image from his collection and went on to the next one, which was nearly identical. Before he could do much scanning along that forty-sixth row, however, the com suite chimed and lit up.

He strode quickly over, brushing past stacks of flimsies and datapads, and punched in his passcode. Lord Vader's ominous hulk immediately appeared.

"My lord," he acknowledged quickly. His mind spun furiously. It was very rare for Vader to call him here at his work station. What could Vader want?

"Place your current work on hold," the dark lord ordered tersely. "I require your services elsewhere."

"Certainly, my lord."

"Proceed to the Corellian Trade Route and begin searching for a YV-series freighter," Vader continued.

Baranne smiled wryly at the faint sense of déjà vu. Hadn't it been just yesterday he'd been scouring the galaxy for a similar freighter?

Then a second holo suddenly flicked on, sent from Vader, and Baranne's smile froze as he recognized the person shown.

Blond. Blue-eyed. Somewhat on the short side. There was no mistaking him—it was the self-same Jedi boy that Baranne had spent nine months chasing down in the wake of the debacle on Corellia.

The boy was still _alive_?

"Find him," Vader said. "Quietly. Return him to me unharmed, along with _anyone_ accompanying him, regardless of age, species, or gender."

"I'm on my way, my lord."

…

For all that he applied his mind to the puzzle, Ferus had yet to devise a way of getting himself out of the stasis field. Without knowing where the generator was, he had no hope of switching it off via the Force. He could, of course, use the Force to rid himself of the magnetic cuffs—but if anything, they'd turned the stasis field power up since that officer had visited. The cuffs were nothing more than a backup measure; slipping out of them would not help him get out of the field. So he left them, the better to allay suspicion that he was anything more extraordinary than a bounty hunter. There had been no mention of his lightsaber thus far; hopefully either Leia or Luke Solo had taken it.

Had he been capable of moving enough, Ferus would have sighed. Of course, hard evidence was not the only thing that might convict him. He knew perfectly well that although any of his aliases would stand up to the usual superficial check and perhaps even a little farther, they would quickly collapse under determined investigation. That officer was going to be back sooner or later, waving damning documentation under his nose. Unless he could find some ingenious way to weasel out of it, something very unpleasant would be in store for him.

Clearly, they weren't going to buy another alias, and there was no excuse he could give, so Ferus would have to resort to mind-wiping the man. He didn't like it. The officer was not some run-of-the-mill, brainwashed stormtrooper. He was a commander, and a sharp one—not the sort that was susceptible to mental persuasion. It would take every ounce of effort and concentration Ferus could muster. And even if he managed it, Vader was going to show up sooner or later and realize what had been done to his officer. Whether Ferus was gone by then or not, Vader would still be on the scent of a Jedi, as implacable as a krakana that had scented blood.

Ferus stared blankly through the wall ahead of him at the moment. Maybe it would be better to simply accept his fate here. Vader was unrelenting, tireless. Ferus had watched from the sidelines as dozens of Jedi exhausted themselves in running from him, only to find themselves at a literal dead end. Why should it be any different for him?

_No! You can't just give up like this!_

He set his jaw grimly, thrust the defeatist thoughts from his mind. He would accept death when it came to him, but simply rolling over at the first impasse was not the Jedi way. He was going to do whatever he could to get himself out of this. He had the princess to live for—

The door hissed open at his back, and when the field had finished rotating Ferus found himself face to face with the steel-eyed officer. Resolved, Ferus began marshaling all the strength he had, summoning the Force to his aid—

"Good day, Ferus Olin."

In a single instant, his concentration was shattered.

How had they found out so quickly? A database search took longer than that! Besides, he shouldn't even have been in the Imperial database!

"Surprised?" the captain observed with satisfaction. "Apparently, Jedi, your face is quite well known to Lord Vader."

Vader…then it was now or never. Fiercely Ferus rallied his thoughts back—he had to do this quickly, decisively, before—

The door slid open, disrupting his concentration once more as two more Imperials entered. He glanced for a moment at them, but his attention was quickly drawn to the black sphere hovering behind them, emitting a low, ominous hum.

"Gentlemen," the captain said with dangerous pleasantry. "Would you be so kind as to make Lord Vader's guest at home?"

The foremost officer turned to Ferus with a cold smile. "Our pleasure, captain."

The black spherical droid began to slowly wade towards him through the air as the captain murmured something to the officer, drawing inexorably closer to Ferus' immobilized form. The door ground shut behind the captain's back.

_Serenity_, he repeated to himself shakily. _There is no passion…there is serenity…there is no passion… _He tried to take his mind back beyond the years and hear Master Siri, slowly chanting to him the words of the Code. But her voice was so dim, so far away…

The field suddenly rotated him down, until he was stretched out on his back. The first of the black-uniformed officers stepped up with a long needle gripped in his hand like a knife, reaching towards his neck. The droid eased up next to his ear, the humming deafening. Fear exploded in the back of his mind.

The nine hells there wasn't passion.

_In Coronet City…_

Sure, Hangar 1138 was the most rundown of all the docks on the Strip. And in this section of the Strip, that was saying something. He didn't care. In fact, he preferred it that way. Meant less bother. Less shooting. Less of a trail that he had to handle. Usually trails weren't much of a problem for a bounty hunter, but this was a special case.

He made a quick stop by the med cabin of the shuttle on his way out, took a moment to check the cryo chamber's readouts. It wouldn't be good for his bank account if something happened to the merchandise; and considering who was interested in the merchandise, probably not beneficial for his health either. The readouts were satisfactory, both in his estimation and that of the med droid he'd activated to keep tabs on the merchandise.

He suited up and continued down the ramp without stopping to check the crew cabin, where he'd locked up the bonuses. The spare med droid was on duty in there, they weren't getting out anytime soon, and they were expendable anyway. He fitted his helmet on, checked the charge and stats on his arm blaster, marched out, sealed and locked the ramp of the shuttle, and continued out of the hangar with a purposeful, military stride.

His pace did not abate for a whole fifty blocks, nor did he take one of the public transports. He barreled down the Strip, and what crowd there was parted before him all along his path between Hangar 1138 and the much more prestigious and secure Hangar 1188.

The guard at the entrance swallowed and stepped out of his way. As did everyone else in the hangar, although the proprietor attempted to approach him and had to be waved away with the credit chip containing his payment for the use of the hangar. This accomplished he wasted no further time boarding the oddly constructed ship that occupied the center of the hangar, surrounded by a bastion of security sensors that would have cooked anyone else without a second thought.

A relief to be back aboard. No matter how you modified a lambda shuttle, it was still a lambda. The best star pilot in the galaxy couldn't make one of the wretched things fly worth a bucket of Hutt slime in combat. _This_, on the other hand, was a _ship_. He ran a fond hand over one bulkhead on his way to the cockpit. In everything else, he was the consummate bounty hunter, objective and relentlessly amoral…but he wouldn't care to lose this ship, and not just because it would be a colossal inconvenience.

He went to the cockpit and checked his systems. Everything in perfect working order. Everything on his ship was always in perfect working order; any other state of affairs was asking for trouble. He made trouble for other people. Not himself.

Now. Logistics. The lockups in the cargo bay would be just fine for holding the bonuses once he got them moved over, but the merchandise itself would require some special treatment, as his ship didn't have a cryo chamber. At any other time, he'd simply use stun or drug treatment and keep it in another lockup, but according to what he'd heard this merchandise was uniquely enabled. He was hardly ignorant about the sorts of talents such beings might have, but there was no telling which of them this particular specimen might have in his arsenal, and he didn't fancy his knowledge to be exhaustive in any case.

The cryo chamber had been an excellent restraint technique thus far. Best to stick with what you knew worked. He'd talk to his contacts and have them install the necessary equipment. No—wait. Special case. Best to avoid the usual contacts. If memory served him—which it did, like everything else at his disposal—there was a cantina near Treasure Ship Row that had some lesser-known information brokers working out of it, including someone with connections in Nar Shaddaa, according to the latest rumors. The Lucky Saber. He'd start there.

…

From within the safety of the shadows, and even though it was a most un-princess-like thing to do, Leia scowled at the rowdy bar patrons. She didn't like this place. It was low, it was filthy, everybody was rude, everybody was hauling weapons and glaring suspiciously at everybody else. She would rather have been back in the palace garden on Alderaan talking to Darth Vader. She would even rather have been in that teensy little mud hut in the middle of the swamp.

With Ferus.

Leia suppressed another pang of guilt when she thought about Ferus. She hoped he was all right. She hoped he'd gotten away.

But the logical part of her mind knew he probably wasn't and hadn't.

She glared a little at Luke to take out her frustration. He was studying a datapad and didn't see her. He seemed to be right at home here. Maybe he was. He talked like he'd been here before. What did she know?

Nothing. That was what she hated most. She was in a whole new universe and all of a sudden, Leia didn't know anything at all.

Had Han felt this way in the palace on Alderaan?

Luke glanced sideways at her. "We can go back to the room if you want."

Startled, and a bit unnerved, she shook her head. She had yet to get used to Luke's habit of answering her thoughts; it always reminded her of Vader. He'd done that to her once too.

Well. Considering that Luke was Vader's _son_, maybe she shouldn't be all that surprised.

She still hadn't gotten over that.

Luke glared back at her from his datapad. "Like it's _my_ fault," he muttered.

Leia slumped over the table with a sigh, resting her chin on her elbow and studying the way the light reflected through her water bottle. She wished she dared eat something in this cantina. So far they'd only eaten old Imperial ration cartons up in Lando's room, or standard rations back on the ship. Leia was starting to miss real food. Dimly she wondered what time it was back on Alderaan, and whether her parents would be having dinner, and whether they were thinking about her, and whether they had any idea where she was.

She didn't think they would be too happy if they knew. A big, scar-faced man wearing a motley conglomeration of stormtrooper and bounty hunter armor came in the main entrance, toting a particularly lethal-looking blaster on one arm. They _really_ wouldn't be happy. Leia watched him despondently, warily, until a shadow crossed their table.

It was Lando, and he was grinning ear to ear. Luke dropped the datapad and sat up straighter. "You found it?"

Wordlessly, Lando handed him a datachip. "You're in luck. The Strip, Hangar 1138."

Luke grinned brightly, and so did Leia. Maybe it was all almost over. Maybe they would find Han and Luke's little sisters and everything would go back to the way it used to be.

Neither of them saw the man with the scars and arm blaster stiffen where he sat at the bar.

"Lando, you're the best," Luke told him.

Lando flashed them a charming smile. Leia was not impressed.

"What about Master Yoda?" she demanded. "What did you find out?"

Lando frowned, dropped his voice to a whisper. "Did you two know he was a Jedi Master?"

Leia nodded impatiently for both of them.

He threw up his hands. "Sweetheart, if the _Emperor_ can't find him, I guarantee you I can't. All I could find out was that he's on the top of the list of Jedi at large and the Empire's been trying to hunt him down ever since Order 66."

Leia felt her stomach sink a little. Nobody, it seemed, had any idea where Yoda could have gone. Not even Ferus. "Well," she pressed, "what about the troll?"

Lando perked up. "Now, that _is_ the interesting thing. Check out this image of Yoda, I got it off a wanted poster."

Luke and Leia leaned forward over the datapad he extended—Luke suddenly gasped and grabbed the pad from Lando, staring at it with his mouth wide open. "No way!"

"No way what?" Leia demanded. She saw nothing remarkable about the picture.

"That looks just like the green troll!"

Leia stared at the picture with renewed interest. "Maybe they're the same."

Luke shook his head furiously. "They must just be the same species."

"Look, maybe you're wrong—"

"That troll tried to _kill_ me," Luke hissed under his breath. Leia saw his point and sat back, dropping the issue. Obviously, no Jedi would have tried to kill Luke.

Still…some subversive part of her refused to chalk this up to coincidence. There _must_ be a connection between the two!

"Well," Lando shrugged, "other than that, nothing on the green troll. I did track down a couple of species that I thought might fit your description, but none of them looked like that picture, and according to the records I could find nobody knows what species Yoda is."

"That's okay," Luke said firmly. "C'mon, let's go." He grabbed Leia's hand and pulled her out of the booth towards to door.

"You two stay out of trouble, huh?" Lando called after them.

Leia scowled at him just before Luke towed her out of the cantina and into the streets. But just outside the cantina, Luke suddenly froze and stared back at the door.

"What is it?" she demanded. "We need to get to—"

"_Shh_!" Luke leaned against the wall of the cantina, staring into the distance straight through it. Leia couldn't hear a thing except the usual uproar. But finally Luke stepped back away, though he still cast a funny glance at the cantina.

"Thought I sensed something," he muttered.

Leia resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She hoped that if someone ever started teaching her about the Force, she didn't wind up being this weird.

…

Lando settled back in the booth, casting a lingering glance at the door. He didn't like to admit it, but he was a bit worried about those two, running around the undersides of Coronet by themselves. They seemed awfully young to him…but, he reminded himself, Luke was used to this sort of thing, kid seemed to thrive on it, and that girl seemed to be a pretty tough sort herself. Ah, they'd probably be just fine. If _Vader _didn't faze Luke, probably nothing short of the Emperor could. He should just be glad he'd tracked down that shuttle without sticking his own neck out far enough to be noticed. Too bad about Han, but the kid seemed to have things under control, and in any case, Han _had_ been the one who'd made him jump off the _Falcon_'s landing ramp from five meters, so he would just forget about and get back to considering his pyrolanium mine proposition—that Bothan wanted an answer by the end of the day.

He slipped the datapad back in his pocket, dumped some change on the table for a tip, deciding to go see the Bothan right now and get a few more questions answered before he made up his mind—he was pretty sure he wanted to go ahead with it—but a heavy hand suddenly forced him back down in his seat.

Lando swallowed as he looked up and saw an imposing human scowling down at him. The man was decked out in motley armor, some stolen from stormtroopers and some from who knew where, sporting a heavy-duty arm blaster and a nasty collection of scars across a face that looked oddly familiar. "You're not going anywhere," the man informed him pleasantly.

Lando forced a smile. Maybe this was the guy's idea of politely asking to do business. _Oh, suuuure, Calrissian, two chances of that…slim and none, and we all know what happened to slim…_ "Sure," he said, pouring on the charm, or at least as much of it as he could muster. "I take it you're interested in some information. My specialty."

"So I've heard," said the other, his smile humorless. He sat down on the other side of the booth.

"Can I get you something to drink?" Lando asked, starting up out of the booth—

He sat down very quickly as the blaster was leveled at him.

"Not thirsty," said his uninvited guest.

"Right," Lando agreed. He spotted the girl's abandoned water bottle and grabbed it, hoping to ease some of the dryness in his throat. "So," he said after several swallows, "what might you be interested in?"

"You're going to tell me all about that little conversation you just had with your little friends," the other said, grinning cheerfully.

"I, uh, I don't know what you're talking about—"

"Let's start with Hangar 1138." He reached out with his other hand and shifted the setting on his blaster to "kill."

Lando got the point very quickly, and just as quickly decided that his conscience could be assuaged by pleading duress. "They're, they're looking for some ship," he said quickly. "I said I'd find it for them, that's it, I don't know whose ship it is!"

"And who might 'they' be?"

Lando couldn't place the guy's accent to save his life. "I, I don't know"—the guy lurched across the table and hauled him up by the collar—"Luke, the kid's name is Luke! I don't know anything else, man!"

He stared into what must be the eyes of death for what felt like roughly forever before the guy let him go. "And they're looking for this ship because?"

"He said his friend got kidnapped," Lando said hoarsely, grabbing the water bottle again.

The guy settled back and eyed him while he drank. Lando thought he was going to start sweating bullets if that stare didn't move somewhere else in the near future. He wiped his mouth off shakily. "You got any more questions?" he demanded, half furious, half terrified.

"Sure," the other said pleasantly. "Any idea where I can get a cryo chamber on short notice?"


	38. In Which Things Finally Happen

Author's Note: Well, I don't think that was such a terribly bad wait! Not compared to the recent record, anyway…Anyway, here's a nice long action-packed chapter for you. Hope you all enjoy! Tell me what you think, I'm always a little iffy when it comes to action scenes…

…

Baranne had not considered the options for very long before settling on Corellia as the first place to look. Firstly, it was the most significant system on the Corellian Trade Route; nearly all traffic stopped here at some point or other. Secondly, it had been Corellia on which the debacle involving this boy first erupted. The laws of psychology firmly indicated that the boy called Luke Skywalker, if that was in fact his name, would feel compelled to return to Ground Zero. And so he docked his ship in the Strip of Coronet and immediately set up shop in the planetary base.

Now, scarcely an hour later, he was threading his way down an alley just off of Treasure Ship Row, aiming his steps towards a familiar cantina not much further away, and shaking his flabbergasted head at his own incredible good luck. He prided himself on his instincts when it came to tracking down suspects, but never before had his instincts hit the jackpot on the very first try. Once at the base, he'd drawn up the records from the Kenobi investigation and scanned the list of involved locations. The first name he'd picked had been the Lucky Saber cantina. A few minutes of security footage had done the rest.

Overhead, Baranne had doubled the Imperial patrol and placed it on red alert; there were also several troopers in plainclothes tailing him. According to plan, he'd be able to enter the cantina alone and scope the place out quietly. Going by the footage, Luke had left the cantina just fifteen minutes ago, and had made frequent visits over the last few days. Provided that Baranne caused no disturbances, he had every reason to expect that the boy would do so again. He would examine the layout of the building and casually talk to some of the patrons. Hopefully, there would still be several beings within who had seen the boy, possibly even spoken with him. He might be able to get some more specific leads on Luke's whereabouts, which would serve him well should Luke decide it was too risky to return once more to the cantina.

Accordingly, the agent had donned a nondescript jumpsuit and jacket, and was making his unobtrusive way down the alley to the cantina entrance. Just as he walked in the door, he was nearly bowled over by fearsome character decked out in mismatched bits of armor, some of them clearly parts of stormtrooper armor. But it was not the motley ensemble that caught his shrewd attention—it was the man's very familiar face.

Extremely familiar face. In fact, Baranne was sure that he had seen a couple million just like it all around the galaxy.

The man did not pay him any attention, but Baranne stepped back outside the door and watched him from behind as he plowed down the street. He had a keen eye for the unusual, and a clone soldier gone solo was most definitely unusual.

Making a mental note to follow up on it, the agent put the misplaced clone out of thought for the present and proceeded into the cantina. He quickly glanced towards the booth where Luke had been sitting, and felt a surge of triumph when he saw that the dark-skinned man who had kept Luke company in the security footage was still sitting there.

Lord Vader's Force was, clearly, very much with him today.

Baranne immediately crossed the crowded, dark room and sat himself down in the booth opposite him. "I understand you're an information broker," he said cheerfully. That much had been very obvious from the security footage; and besides that, there was something about the man's demeanor.

The dark-skinned man stared at him, his expression a cross between surprise and dismay and relief and fading fear and renewing fear and guilt and self-defense and…well, just about any distressed emotion Baranne could think of.

He wondered vaguely if it had anything at all to do with Luke…well, he'd soon find out.

"Yeah," the man said, swallowing a drink of water from his depleted bottle. "Yes, I am." He dredged up an effort at a charming smile, but it didn't overcome his general state of dismay, which remained painfully obvious.

"Excellent," Baranne said, waving the bar droid over. "As it happens, I'm looking for someone, whom I think you've seen recently."

The dark-skinned man stared at him for exactly one second longer, and then bolted up out of the booth—only to be intercepted by one of Baranne's backup men. The undercover trooper neatly set the information broker back down in the booth with a patronizing pat on the shoulder and meandered over to the bar. Baranne kept smiling pleasantly at him. The broker returned a bleak stare.

"A young man, thirteen years old, blond, blue eyes," Baranne continued. "Answers to Luke?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," the broker said dully.

His hunch had been correct; that distressed response of just a few seconds ago certainly had something to do with Luke Skywalker.

"Oh, I think you do," Baranne objected. "As a matter of fact I just saw you talking to him a few minutes ago on the security cameras." He pulled out his pocket projector and played a clip of relevant footage.

The broker's face fell promptly. "Why do you want to know?" he muttered.

"I'm with Corellian Family Services," Baranne lied smoothly. He produced the badge he'd fabricated for just such a purpose on his last investigation into Luke's whereabouts. "Luke ran away from one of our facilities several months ago and we've been trying to recover him ever since. City Surveillance just sent my office a sighting alert. It's vitally important to society to get these children off the street and into a stable, safe environment. Surely you can understand that, Mr…?"

"Calrissian," said he, looking no less dubious than before.

"Calrissian," Baranne repeated. "Well, Mr. Calrissian, I certainly wouldn't want to be the one responsible for withholding information on the whereabouts of a state ward. The Imperial legal system doesn't look kindly on the obstruction of orphans' rights."

Unfortunately, Calrissian seemed to have worked up a bit of nerve. "I got news for you, pal," he snorted. "This is Corellia. Street rats' rights are pretty low on the list of Imperial priorities."

Baranne paused a second, and then leaned over the table and spoke in a low voice. "Then let me put this another way, Mr. Calrissian. The Empire also doesn't look kindly on fraternization with enemies of the regime. As it currently stands, Mr. Calrissian, you're guilty of protecting a Jedi. Now unless you want to tell me what you know about Luke, I'm going to have you reported, arrested, and executed for high tr—"

"Hangar 1138," Calrissian blurted out angrily. "He's looking for a friend of his, who got kidnapped, and supposedly the ship his friend is on is in Hangar 1138 on the Strip. I swear, that's all I know!"

Baranne searched his eyes evenly for a second, and nodded. The man wasn't lying—he was too much of a self-preservationist for that. "Thank you, Mr. Calrissian," he said cheerfully. "We at Corellian Family Services appreciate your cooperation."

…

Luke was a bit surprised to discover that he did, in fact, remember Hangar 1138. It was the same hangar that he and Obi-Wan had landed in when they first arrived on Corellia, almost three years ago. Where he'd first met Han.

Was this one of those Force-coincidence-except-not-things that Obi-Wan had always talked about?

Maybe he'd ask his father about it later.

Assuming his father didn't throw him a maximum security cell for the rest of his life once he caught up with Luke. After what he'd been up to as of recent—blowing up castle equipment, sending out warning transmissions illegally, wrecking the dueling salle, hacking through walls, shooting down TIE pilots, and running halfway across the galaxy without permission—lessons on metaphysics probably weren't going to be at the top of his father's lecture list.

"Why are we stopping?" Leia hissed in his ear.

Luke shook his head. "Just, um, thinking."

"About the plan for getting Han and your sisters?"

"More about how my father's probably gonna kill me."

Leia scowled at him; he could just barely see it through the shadows they were hunkered in. "Can we _not_ think about that, please?"

"I didn't mean it _literally_," he hissed back.

"You _hope_," she retorted, hefting her blaster. Luke winced.

"You _can_ shoot that thing, right?"

Now she was giving him that really-annoyed look again. He bet if he could see under his father's mask, that was the sort of expression he'd see whenever Han was mouthing off. "I had weapons instruction from a martial arts master back home," she told him for about the umpteenth time. "Of _course_ I can shoot a blaster. Just so long as _you_ know what you're doing."

Luke glared back at her. "Trust me, it's not like security's really tight around this dive." He gestured at the dilapidated hangar across the street. Leia raised her eyebrows. "We'll sneak in through the back, scope it out from the bunkroom, and make a run for the ship. We stun anybody who shows up, find Han and my sisters, and run for it. No problem." It was the same plan that they'd come up with when they left the cantina and stopped by their freighter to find some extra blasters—just in case.

"What if that green troll shows up?"

"I've got myself shielded. He can't sense me."

"_What_?"

"In the Force! He can't find me in the Force!"

"He can _do_ that?"

Luke nodded in exasperation. "For crying out loud, _I _can do it."

"What if he finds _me_?"

"I'm shielding you too."

Leia relaxed a little. "Oh. You sure?"

"Yes," he snapped. "How come you never trust me?"

"If I never trusted you, I wouldn't be here," she pointed out. Luke had to agree with that point. Cautiously, he scanned the area between them and the hangar one more time. But he didn't see anything suspicious; just typical passersby, most of them your average local scum. As long as neither of them bothered anybody, there was nothing to worry about.

"I think it's clear. Let's go."

The two of them slipped out from under their awning and wove their way across the street, around the side of the hangar towards the crumbling wall in the back.

…

"No place for a child, this is," Yoda commented disapprovingly under his breath. Shrouded in his Jedi cloak, hood flung completely over his head and triangular ears, Obi-Wan rather thought the diminutive master looked far less like a Jedi than he did a Jawa. Which was as well—if Jawas were not exactly common in Coronet, they nonetheless attracted much less undesirable attention than a Jedi Master would.

"Luke knows his way around the Strip," he responded absently. "We were certainly here often enough."

"In the company of adults, he was then," Yoda retorted, as fiercely as he could while still whispering. "Wise, you think it is, for two younglings to wander here?"

"I didn't say it was _wise_," Obi-Wan defended. A fearsomely tattooed Zabrak stalked past them, wielding a vibroshiv conspicuously; he reminded Obi-Wan more than a little of that Sith he had battled on Naboo, all those years ago. No, indeed—the sooner they got Luke and Leia safely away from this shifting, dangerous place the better. "Of course," he continued, "they would not _be_ here alone if you would simply reveal yourself to them."

"Uncertain of the boy's reaction, I am. Wait for the correct time, we must. Patience, young Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan, had he been in his corporeal ghostly form at that moment, would have bristled in a very Han Solo-ish fashion at such condescension. Unable to respond with anything like a proper tone of respect, he simply nodded his head. He would be cursed if he would go about making sarcastic responses to Jedi Masters like the second incarnation of Anakin Skywalker. "Are you sure you know what direction he's heading?" he said instead. "He's shielding his presence very well."

"Yes, yes," Yoda agreed, swerving around a staggering, obviously drunk Rodian, "impressive, his abilities are. Shielding two, he is. Very advanced, very advanced. Taught him this well, you did."

"Thank you," Obi-Wan returned, pleasantly surprised by the sudden compliment.

"But strong enough to hide from me, he is not," the Jedi Master continued. "More experienced, I am. Find him I can, yes."

Obi-Wan shook his head in bewilderment. He himself could not discern Luke's whereabouts, not even the faintest glimmer of his bright Force aura; he very much doubted either of the Sith could do better. Yoda was indeed unrivaled in his mastery of the ways of the Force.

"Further down the Strip, he is," Yoda informed him in a low voice. "Near—"

He stopped mid-sentence, mid-stride, his ears perking up alertly beneath his hood—and then he sped forward much more quickly than before. "In danger, the twins are," the Jedi Master announced tersely. "Quick we must be."

…

"Engage Operation Rat Trap, Plan A-sub-a," Baranne ordered into his comlink in a low voice. He had just had enough time to scope out the vicinity of Hangar 1138, and had stationed his men secretly around the area, most of them undercover in plainclothes, weapons concealed. The patrol fighters overhead had sent him scans of the interior of the hangar, and the commander of the stormtrooper squad had quickly formulated several variations on the newly-conceived Operation Rat Trap. Just recently, in quick succession, all of his lookouts had reported sighting a blond boy, accompanied by a dark-haired girl; Baranne had just confirmed the boy's identity with his own eyes, from where he was haggling with a street vendor over juba fruit prices. The two of them had slipped surreptitiously down the alley, towards the back of the building, no doubt planning to sneak in through the breaks in the wall.

Exactly as he had anticipated.

He broke off his bogus negotiations with the fruit vendor and meandered innocently after the two down the alley. By the time the fugitive children reached the back of the hangar, they would be surrounded by his men.

He had Luke Skywalker in his net as surely as the galaxy spun.

…

Luke and Leia rushed down the alley, sticking to the shadows on the sides, until they turned the corner around the back of the hangar. The street was a bit wider than an alleyway here, more room for movement and breathing; Luke was relieved to note that the hangars on the other side were staggered, so that there was another alley coming to a T-intersection at the middle of the back wall of Hangar 1138. Should someone start firing at them, they would have someplace to run instead of just straight ahead.

"Where are we going?" Leia asked tensely.

Luke pointed ahead. "There's a break in the wall, right up there. We can slip in through there, and I think the bunkroom will be not too far to the left of that."

"You're sure nobody saw us?"

"Nobody who cares," Luke assured her. "Come on, we don't want to waste time."

_Please, Han, please still be there!_

…

He'd come straight back to the hangar after getting the broker to arrange the immediate delivery of the portable cryo unit. Checked all the security recordings. No sign of the blonde kid. Luke, that was the name. Good. Time to set up some contingency plans. Probably it would be a good idea to catch him alive, stash him with the other bonuses. There was always a chance his employer would be interested. And if not—well, nothing lost. In any case, he couldn't let this Luke character go running around free, not when the kid seemed to know something about his activities. Special case; his employer wanted this to be completely under the radar. No trail.

The broker was fast, lucky for him. The cryo unit was only fifteen minutes behind him. Almost impressive. He paid the deliverer and had the med droid transfer the merchandise into the new unit, once he was satisfied it was completely functional. The hired speeder van was already waiting; he didn't waste any time loading the cryo unit into it and securing it in a carefully padded cargo cubicle. Once the merchandise was secured, he headed back to the shuttle for the bonuses.

Which was when the sensor alarm received strapped to his wrist went off.

…

_Blast! _That boy was good.

Somehow, Baranne's men hadn't been quite fast enough to stop Luke Skywalker before he wormed his way into the hangar, his brunette girlfriend in tow. No doubt about it, that boy could vanish into the woodwork quite spectacularly. Well—it was not as though the plan was no longer salvageable. With a few hastily barked orders into the com, he redistributed his men so as to cover all possible exits from the hangar, and put a call in to the planetary base calling for immediate reinforcement. According to the scans from the TIEs, there weren't any subterranean exits; Luke would have to come out sooner or later.

Even if he flew out, there were fighter patrols standing by; more than a match for a _lambda_ shuttle, even if a Jedi was at the helm.

They'd catch the boy on his way out, even if they were spread a little more thinly.

…

Leia's breath came in exhilarated gasps. They'd actually done it! They had snuck into the hangar and were now aboard the mysterious shuttle she had last seen on Vjun, all without being seen by anyone. There were plenty of crevices and shadowy nooks to hide in aboard the dimly lit ship. Now all they had to do was find Han and Luke's sisters.

How hard could that be? It wasn't a big ship.

They had split up to cover both halves of the main deck. Leia had been past a few cabins now without seeing anything, but as she stretched upward to peer through the third, she caught her breath in excitement.

There, slumped on a bunk inside the cabin and gazing dolefully at the med droid standing guard, were two very adorable little girls. Leia quickly scrambled to find Luke, keeping a sharp eye for whoever the enemy was.

"I found them!"

They dashed silently back to the crew cabin, and Luke switched on his hissing blue lightsaber, slicing through the lock on the door.

The med droid spun, and made a screech of protest, but Luke cut it down instantly. As it collapsed, the two little girls on the bunk catapulted out of the shadows onto their brother, fright warring delight in their eyes.

"Das Luke, das Luke, it's Luke!"

"Dadda here?"

"Where's Dadda?"

"Where's Miyr?"

"Where's Han?"

"Who's _dat_?"

"Who's _dat_, Luke, who's her?"

"Shhh!" Luke hissed quickly. "The bad guys are still out there somewhere, we gotta be quiet, okay?" They immediately quieted down.

"But who's _her_?" one of the very cute little girls whispered to him.

"This is my friend, Leia. She's gonna help us get away, okay?"

They stared dubiously at Leia for a few seconds before nodded reluctantly. "A'kay."

"Sandra, Leia's gonna carry you," Luke said, pushing one of the identical twins towards her. Leia picked up Sandra, trying not to stare. How on earth could such cute little baby girls be related to Darth Vader?

Her Aunt Celly would coo and fuss over these two for hours if they ever visited Alderaan. She shifted Sandra on her hip and gripped her blaster a little more tightly, determined not to let anything hurt her new acquaintance. Maybe she was Darth Vader's daughter, but she was still just an innocent little girl who'd been kidnapped. And that was wrong, and Leia was going to do something about it.

She almost hoped she would get a shot at whoever had scared them.

Luke reached down and picked up the other twin. "C'mon, Sara," he said. "Keep quiet, okay? We're gonna try to find Han."

Sara snuggled up against Luke, still looking frightened. "'Kay," she whispered.

Leia felt Sandra's tiny arms tighten around her neck, and she glanced down into the toddler's wide blue eyes. "C'mon, Sandra," she said, and went ahead of Luke out the door—

She screamed. The man from the cantina stood right in front of her, the one with all the scars and the mismatched, carbon-scored armor. And he was pointing his huge ugly blaster right at her.

She had no idea how she managed to shoot him first.

The blaster wasn't set to stun. Her shot ripped right into his side, between the chinks in his armor, and threw him backwards—he grunted—Leia ran. Behind her she heard shots singing, footsteps pounding, Luke's lightsaber squealing—then suddenly she was racing down the ramp, and Luke was running right behind her, and they were streaking across the hangar towards the chink in the wall.

She didn't pause as she squeezed herself and Sandra through the narrow fracture. That man couldn't follow them through here, so she took a moment to stop and gasp for air. Sandra was shaking, but she was still very quiet. "Shh," Leia said anyway.

Luke soon pressed into her side. "Come on!" he hissed. "We can't stop, keep going!"

Leia took a last gulp of air and they both wriggled their way through the last stretch of the crack, bursting out into the light—

Where she found a dozen blaster muzzles suddenly looking them square in the eye.


	39. Chaos on Corellia

Author's Note: Happy New Year everyone! I sincerely apologize for the long wait on this story. Between End-of-Semester insanity and Christmas Chaos, I have been ridiculously busy. If you can forgive me for leaving you on such an evil cliffhanger for so long, here is the next installment. I shouldn't be so busy during January, so hopefully you won't have long to wait for the followup to this one. Tell me what you think!

…

Ferus heard the door hiss open. He felt the inrush of air against his neck and face and arms, the slight vibration in the floor. He saw none of it, for he was sprawled out on the cold metal deck, his head twisted to the side where it had come to a stop about a millimeter from ramming into the block-like bench of the cell. The thought of turning his head to the other side still made him nauseous—let alone the concept of scaling the insurmountable cliff before his nose and dragging himself atop the bench. Once he'd hit the floor, he'd lost whatever momentum had kept him going previously. His muscles were all limp, useless goo.

But he didn't need to see to know who had showed up. The rhythmic hiss was unmistakable. He managed not to shudder, thankfully—that would only have caused more pain.

Not that pain wasn't most likely coming regardless.

Ferus gritted his teeth and tried to brace himself as a pair of booted feet marched up to him, guessing at what was coming. He wasn't disappointed—with a single, massive gloved hand, Darth Vader gripped the neck of his shirt, hauled him up, and threw him atop the bench. His back and shoulders slammed into the corner. He groaned, eyes closed in the effort to fight both the surge of fire and the wave of dizziness.

Somehow, he managed to hold the shields around his mind. He didn't know how long that would continue to be the case.

When he was sure that doing so would not cause him to topple ingloriously off the bench, Ferus dared open his eyes. Silently he stared up at Vader's indecipherable mask. Another man might not have known just what Vader was thinking; but Ferus was only too agonizingly aware of the flood of anger and hatred crashing upon his mental shields. It burned, as though someone had dashed pepper in his eyes. He blinked reflexively as he fought to push it further away from him.

He was utterly incapable of any active use of the Force, but he could still analyze the nature of the violent emotions scalding his mind. He almost wished he couldn't, for the hatred assailing him was not generic. It was _personal_.

Personal? What had he ever done that would cause Vader to hate him personally?

Ferus stared at the hulking, alien, armored monstrosity before him, hopelessly cycling through memories for some clue. It must be Vader who was the mistaken one, because the Jedi was quite sure he would have remembered an encounter with somebody so…ah, singular. On the other hand, his logic _was_ only semi-functional at the moment, the majority of his brain being obsessed by the aftereffects of torture.

A flicker of movement—or at least, what his bleary senses picked up as just a flicker—behind Vader managed to attract some of the attention he still had left. It was the captain. Despite himself, Ferus laughed softly at the man's pale expression.

"A bit less sure of ourselves, are we?" he remarked with absurd clarity.

Thanks to the paralyzing agent, his larynx was the one part of him that did not hurt.

For a moment, he thought Vader would be quick to punish his insolent manner of addressing the officer. But the Sith made no move to defend his subordinate. Clearly, the man was in every bit as much trouble as he thought he was. Probably more, from the fresh pulse of black, vengeful rage that was radiating the captain's way from Vader…

Somehow, he couldn't quite bring himself to an appropriate Jedi attitude of compassion. Ferus just closed his eyes again.

"Dismissed, Captain," Vader said tersely.

Ferus managed a small, bitter smirk as the door resealed behind the captain. Of course, whatever trouble the captain was in, he was in much more…

"Ferus Olin," Vader rumbled dangerously, hooking his thumbs into his belt. "I see you have been…made familiar with our accommodations."

"Oh, yes," he sighed out, "your hospitality is very much apprec—"

He was cut off by his own quite literally strangled cry—Vader suddenly seized him by the throat, and with one massive, crushing hand plucked him up off the bench and slammed him into the wall, feet dangling a good two feet above the floor.

"Allow me to upgrade you to first-class," he snarled. At least, that might have been what he'd said. Between the ringing in his ears and the matches somebody seemed to have lit at every single nerve ending in his body, Ferus couldn't really be sure.

"Thanks," he choked out, "economy—is—fine—"

His head was slammed again into the wall—he grabbed reflexively at the durasteel hand clenched around his throat, stars blazed across his vision.

"I insist."

He didn't know which would make him pass out first—the pain, the blows to his head, or the strangulation—but whichever one had been in the lead, his consciousness was narrowly saved when Vader dropped him back onto the bench. He reached feebly for the Force, trying to clear the smears away from his vision; he winced as a dark intangible fist slapped him down.

"That was unwise," Vader rumbled. "As was your decision to infiltrate my home."

Something suddenly sparked his thoughts. "Your _home_?" he muttered, mostly to himself.

…

Despite his insatiable rage, Vader chastised himself for the slip. He must be much more careful—he did not know how much information Olin had managed to uncover about his children. He elected to ignore the comment. "Cooperate," he said instead, "and you might be granted a less tortuous form of death."

Olin did not pursue his lack of reaction. "Generous of you," he returned, blinking again wearily. Fortunately for him, his tone communicated only resignation—had there been the slightest trace of mockery, Olin might not have survived another minute. But there was only resignation, and pain, and weariness.

It was strange to see the former model Padawan brought so low. For all his anticipation of it, the sight had not given him the expected satisfaction. He hated Olin all the more for managing to inspire such discomfort in him. The Jedi should not be able to affect him thus!

Furious, he forced such thoughts from his mind. The past between Anakin Skywalker and Ferus Olin was immaterial—his three children had been stolen from him, and Olin had been involved.

"Perhaps you would care to explain whatever scheme it was that so spectacularly failed you," he said tightly, gesturing at the cell and the Jedi's battered appearance. He must not allow his rage free rein—if he did that, Olin would be dead in seconds, along with his best hope for tracking down his children's whereabouts.

The Jedi's answer was as he had expected, but nonetheless infuriating. "I would not care to," he murmured. His gaze cut tiredly up to the ceiling.

Normally, Vader would have spent more time attempting to coax or terrorize the prisoner into cooperation. Not this time.

"Perhaps," he said with relish, "I can persuade you otherwise." A line of bloodied light suddenly blazed forth between the two of them, bathing Olin's battered frame in a hellish, crimson glow.

The troopers outside the door stiffened as they heard the tell-tale hum of the lightsaber. One of them, a fairly raw recruit, nearly dropped his blaster at the startling scream that quickly drowned it out. Frantically he turned to his more seasoned companion.

"You'll get used to it," said the other.

…

Lando didn't even wait until the bogus Imperial agent had left the cantina before he dashed out the back door. If he stuck around any longer, he was liable to have a whole line of interrogators taking turns raking him over the coals. And that, he told himself shakily, was not good for business, not by a long shot. As he slid back into the stream of pedestrians, he ran his hand through his hair, trying to calm his shot nerves.

He wandered the street for quite a few minutes, determinedly putting all thoughts of Luke and his little girlfriend out of mind. Hey—business was business. If you were going to play around in the muddy underworld, you had to be prepared to face the risks. It wasn't _his_ fault that the Empire was after the kid—and sticking his head out on the block for a customer wasn't part of Lando's business contract. Yeah, it was too bad, but bad happened whether you wanted it to or not. The thing was to make sure _you_ didn't get caught up in it. He ought to be proud of himself for coming out of this with his neck and business intact…

_Who the nine hells are you trying to kid, Calrissian? You screwed that kid over majorly and you _know _it, you scumbag of a coward!_

_Maybe I am_! he shouted back at the nagging voice in his head. _But there's nothing I can do about it anymore, is there?_

_Just how many lies _do_ you plan on telling yourself today? _

Lando scowled and kicked a nearby stall stand as he hefted his blaster and spun about, heading the opposite direction. _I'm dead. I'm insane. Stupid, stupid conscience…_

…

She had actually _shot_ him.

Had he been a lesser man, the thought would have taken him quite some time to process. On the other hand, had he been a lesser man, the idea of somebody getting the better of him would not have been so shocking. It nonetheless took him several precious seconds to recover and assess that the wound was not serious, seconds in which the teenage infiltrators successfully escaped the shuttle with the bonuses. He staggered after them, and just glimpsed them wriggling through a small, jagged break in the far wall. Training enabled him to sprint after them, and he primed his blaster as he ran—but as he came within earshot, he heard the voices outside, and skidded to a silent stop.

It only took a few seconds to determine that a whole mess of Imperial stormtroopers had suddenly turned up outside his supposedly unobtrusive hiding hole.

Swearing softly under his breath, he backed away hastily. The bonuses were certainly not worth calling attention to his activities. He still had the requested merchandise safely stowed.

Cooly, he backed away from the wall, heading quickly for the speeder van. The Imperials had clearly tracked the teenagers here, which made it likely that they were working in Vader's interests. In that case, they would undoubtedly search the hangar as a matter of course. Better not be there then. The merchandise was conspicuous, they'd spot it straight off. He would have to risk the patrols and rear lines the commander had most likely stationed around the perimeter. They would ID his van, of course, but it was a rental, so they wouldn't ID him. Besides, as soon as he got clear of the perimeter and into some good heavy traffic, he could go ballistic and they'd lose his engine trace. He'd have to lay low for a while before heading out of system, of course. Special case, no trail. But the contract wasn't in jeopardy yet.

He abandoned the shuttle without a backward glance and revved up the van engine.

…

Baranne emerged triumphantly from behind the solid line of stormtroopers, surveying the quarry they held at bay. He was a bit taller, and the hair and eye coloring had changed, but it was most unmistakably Luke Skywalker who was gripping a lightsaber in one hand and glaring furiously at him in between protective glances at his companion, the anonymous brunette girl.

What went beyond bewildering, however, was the fact that both the older children were carrying small girls with curly blond hair and wide, terrified blue eyes—small girls who most certainly had not been there when his men had tracked young Skywalker into the building.

Baranne didn't even pretend to know what interest either Luke Skywalker or Lord Vader could possibly have in a pair of human female toddlers. It really wasn't his concern, anymore than Luke's ultimate fate had been his concern all those months ago. His only concern was that Vader had told him to bring back Skywalker and anyone accompanying him. "Anyone" included all three of the unidentified girls.

"It's been some time since I had the pleasure of your company, young man," the agent said pleasantly, stepping forward. He held out his hand for the lightsaber. Luke cast an irritated glare around the circle of stormtroopers, and then—knowing full well that any rash attack on his part would result in immediate stunning—dropped the weapon into Baranne's hand.

The agent was mildly surprised by the boy's cooperation.

"Just leave my arm alone," Luke growled.

"If you'll refrain from breaking mine," the agent returned with a thin smile.

The brunette suddenly cut in. "You _know_ that—that—"

"Ugly bucket of Hutt slime?" Luke supplied. "We've met." He shifted the frightened little girl on his hip, never taking his scowl off the agent.

As if he could be riled by the gibes of a pair of teenagers. "And might I ask who your charming friends are?"

"You might _not_."

Baranne shrugged. If he'd expected the boy to answer, he wouldn't have asked the question, since it was really none of his business. The question only served to prove that whatever the boy had experienced during his previous capture, it had not done much to affect his stubbornness.

Just what _did_ Vader want with this young Jedi, if he didn't want him dead?

Well. That was none of his business, either. Although he found himself pleased by the knowledge that this bright young fellow was not, apparently, in danger of his life. Of course, even had he known that Vader would torture and kill said bright young fellow, the knowledge still would have no bearing on his responsibility to turn the boy over.

The brunette made a sudden movement to one side, and the troopers tensed, but the young would-be Jedi quickly lunged for her arm. "No, no, it's okay," he said quickly. "We're safe, okay?"

Baranne was every bit as surprised by this announcement as the girl seemed to be; but unlike him, she soon relaxed, as though realizing he was right. Whatever Lord Vader wanted from Luke Skywalker, it did not appear to be his life or health. He did not allow himself to ponder any other reasons the Dark Lord might have for his involvement with the boy. Such questions could quickly end his career, not to mention his life. Safety lay in focusing on the job at hand, which was getting these four safely aboard the nearest Star Destroyer and ferrying them to Vader posthaste.

"Secure them," he ordered firmly. The troopers hurried forward, guns trained on children, and attempted to separate them.

The situation immediately plunged into chaos. The trooper who'd tried to pry a blonde toddler out of the brunette's grasp collapsed when she landed an unexpectedly forceful kick to his groin. Another trooper rushed up behind and twisted the girl's arms suddenly behind her back—the blonde toddler shrieked as she was dropped and knocked aside by a third soldier hurrying to restrain the older girl. Luke yelled something and made a dash for the little girl. A fourth trooper mistook this for an escape attempt and tripped him as a fifth swung the hilt of his blaster at the boy's head—they connected at the same time despite Baranne's shout of warning. He fell, stunned, dropped the other small girl—she scrambled to her twin's side, sobbing—

Then a blaster shot from who knew where burned through the leg armor of one of his men, and the situation fell past chaos into hell.

…

Lando felt a detached rush of disbelief as he fired a second time into the knot of stormtroopers below. What he was doing was stupid. It was beyond stupid. It was point-blank suicidal. They had armored landspeeders and _TIEs_ out here, and he had one cheap-shot blaster and a bunch of helpless kids on his side. Hell, he didn't even have a plan. All he'd been able to figure out was that he'd have a better chance against those troopers here in the narrow alley than he was ever likely to get again.

He fired off a third and fourth shot, telling himself grimly that the elements of surprise and concealment were only going to last him so long—sooner or later they were going to figure out where he was, and that there was only one of him, and it wasn't too likely he was going to pick all of them off before—

_What the nine hells was _that

…

Dizzily Luke heard blaster shots ring out. The world was spinning and tilting around him, apparently knocked off its axis by the blow to his head. He half-staggered, half-crawled towards Sara and Sandra, who were screaming as they were knocked around on the ground by dashing stormtroopers. Leia was lost somewhere in the melee—he couldn't see her.

He had to get to the twins—had to shield them from the fire—but he didn't even get within arm's reach before he heard an engine roar. The next instant, the invisible force of a gravitic repulsor threw him against the hangar wall as the speeder van that had been inside the hangar swept over them all and accelerated away down the alley. His head hit hard, and the world went completely black.

…

The van's repulsor wave slammed him hard against the back wall of the hangar, but that didn't stop Baranne from ordering his men to fire on it. The ones who had escaped the repulsor wave immediately turned their blasters on it, but they only scored a glancing hit to the rear fuselage before it sped out of range. He quickly elected not to worry about it at present—the TIEs and armored speeders would give chase, as per orders.

The decision was only reinforced when diminutive figure wielding a shaft of green light suddenly hurtled around the corner of the alley and began slicing a path of devastation through the squad of troopers.

_Jedi!_

…

Unless Lando Calrissian's eyes deceived him sorely—he rubbed them several times with his free hand to make sure they were not—the maniac alien who had just arrived on the scene looked a _lot_ like the Jedi Master Yoda. From the looks of the whirlwind solo attack he'd launched on the troopers, Lando could certainly see why Luke would have called him a "homicidal green troll."

That was the deadliest garden gnome _he'd_ ever seen, either.

He sobered quickly. That troll-Jedi-thing, whether it was Yoda or not, was clearly headed for Luke. He had to save the kid. With a last hopeless prayer and a final curse against the absent Han Solo, Lando flung himself off the parapet of the adjacent building and fired in the direction of the green troll on his way down, until he crashed like an overloaded freighter into several unfortunately positioned stormtroopers.

…

Leia screamed in horror as a trooper directly in front of her fell to the pavement in two pieces, sliced apart through his middle by a flashing lightsaber. It was the green troll!

And it was headed straight for her.

The stormtroopers who'd been restraining her suddenly let go, and brought all their blasters to bear on the troll—but it waved the lightsaber back and forth and all the bolts rebounded, smashing all around her and the two troopers—one of them fell with an awful scream—

Leia saw the gray-eyed agent nearby, shouting orders into his comlink—more importantly, she saw Luke's lightsaber in his other hand. Desperately she lunged towards the lightsaber, but he grabbed her quickly and hurled with her around the corner of the hangar building—

Then the alley erupted from beneath her feet.

…

Lando kicked himself up off of the collapsed troopers he had landed on and kept firing and ducking shots. He could hear the troll wreaking havoc on the other side of the fight as he struggled towards the far wall, where Luke had landed after being struck by the repulsor wave. He was nearly there when he tripped over something.

He took a precious second to glance down, and saw the two screeching toddlers.

Another, much louder screech made him look up.

There was a freakin'_ TIE_ bearing down on them. There could only be one reason for that.

He didn't have anything like enough time to get to Luke. Without even thinking about it, he snatched up the little girls and ran like a nerf with its tail on fire. He made it around the far corner of the building just before the laser cannons lit up. There were several stormtroopers chasing him, but then the ground lurched tremendously and shrapnel and debris exploded into the air. Lando staggered back to his feet first, a girl in either arm, and didn't stop running for what felt like hours.

…

Luke regained consciousness just in time to spot a TIE fighter hurtling in the direction of the fight. He scrambled desperately to his feet, and screamed for the girls—he saw Baranne rush Leia around the corner, out of the line of fire—but where were Sara and San—

Was that _Lando_?

It was! Lando had his sisters, and he'd seen the fighter too, for he took off and escaped around the far corner.

Luke had no time to do anything but squeeze as fast as he could through the crack in the hangar wall. He started to run for the other side of the hangar, but outside the TIE's laser cannon ripped into the alley with titanic force. The floor bucked, hurling him off his feet and ramming his head yet again into hard stone. He was so stunned that he could only watch as the huge, shattered shards of the hangar wall fell towards him. They seemed to move in slow motion, but his body wouldn't move at all—he stared in helpless horror as the great, boulder-size chunks of stone plunged through the air towards him, and wondered dazedly how long he would be aware of their crushing force before it killed him.

Slowly, slowly they fell—the closer they got to him, the slower they seemed to move, until they seemed to be frozen in space mere feet away from him…

Luke blinked.

And blinked again.

He shook his head; he shifted up onto his elbows.

Slowly he got up, sidling out of the pathway of the closest hunk of stone. Stupidly he poked it; patted it with his hand. The floor rumbled as other chunks of the rubble smashed into it around him. But his eyes were not deceiving him. The piece of the wall that was collapsing around him had, for absolutely no apparent reason, frozen in midair.

Panicky adrenaline suddenly overcame his stupefication and pain—Luke ran as fast as he could, ducking and weaving around the boulders of stone that should have smashed him into goo, until he was safely clear. Then the full force of the blows he'd taken was free to hit him again. Panting, wanting to cry from the searing pain in his head, he sank down on what his skin told him was the cool metal boarding ramp of the lambda shuttle.

After being hit so hard in the head so many times, he knew better than to move again. He tried weakly to reach out in the Force and find his sisters and Leia, but he couldn't do it. He could only hope that they were safe. Baranne would probably find him in here eventually.

What had stopped the stone from falling on him? Had he done it? He'd used to do things with the Force without knowing it, way before Obi-Wan had taught him anything. He didn't see how he could have done it, since he'd just tried to use the Force and been unable to—

"Lie still, Luke," a familiar, accented voice told him gently.

A ghostly blue figure bent over him on the ramp. "Obi-Wan!" Luke attempted painfully to struggle back up, but the Jedi Master held up his hand firmly. His head hurt so badly anyway that he did as he was ordered. "I was lying still," he murmured wearily.

"You mustn't fall asleep," the Jedi Master added firmly. "You most likely have more than one concussion."

"Did you save me?" Luke asked him tiredly.

"No, Luke. Master Yoda did."

Luke frowned. He felt someone coming up the ramp, but Obi-Wan's glance warned him not to move.

The next thing he knew, he was looking straight up into the ugly face of the homicidal green troll.


	40. How Not To Babysit A Skywalker

A/N: Whew! Yes, I know it has been just about FOREVER since I updated this story. Four months. I am so sorry. I think that set a new record. Thing is, I wound up being busier than expected over the January semester, and this spring I'm trying to manage eighteen credit hours, plus scholarship and job applications, and so on, and so forth…It's been difficult to find the time and inspiration to work on my fics, and it had been even longer since I updated _Rubies_, so I thought that one ought to get my attention first. The good thing is, this chapter is fairly long! There's not a whole lot of action, since it's mostly denouement from all the craziness of the last couple of chapters, but hopefully you will enjoy it anyway!

I wish I could tell you the next update will be faster, but it's unlikely I'll get another one out before the end of the semester. First part of the summer is going to be rather hectic, too, since my sister is graduating and we're moving…it might get better after that, though! I do promise to do my best, though…

Oh, and on a side note--apparently they've done something to formatting on the website, so my apologies to anybody trying to read previous chapters of this story. At some point I'll go back and re-insert all the proper section breaks to clear up the probable confusion.

Anyway, without further ado—chapter forty!

* * *

Baranne had no idea where the TIE had come from. He had even less idea why its pilot had taken it into his head to strafe the conflict area. He did, however, have an excellent idea of what fate that pilot was going to meet if Luke Skywalker hadn't survived the salvo. The agent preferred not to contemplate what Vader might do to _him_.

He struggled up to his feet, coughing through the particle-heavy dust, and took stock of the immediate situation. He had six intact troopers at his immediate disposal, at least on this side of the catastrophe. One of them had had the sense to fling himself protectively over the brunette girl, who was too frightened by their near death to object.

The agent edged around the crumbling edge of the hangar to survey the scene of the devastation. Nearly the entire rear wall of the hangar had been blasted inward, but the interior was still concealed thanks to the thick billows of smoke and dust. Several of his troops were visible, smashed and broken like dolls amidst the rubble. One or two were stirring; he sent in a quick order over his comlink for a medic and moved cautiously forward until he had covered the full length of the alley and checked all adjoining routes.

There was no sign of either Luke or the toddlers; nor did Baranne see the Jedi alien or whoever it was that had started the shooting in the first place. It did not seem likely that all of them had been instantaneously vaporized, which meant that at least some of them had escaped the site or fled into the hangar.

His comlink crackled; he answered. "Baranne."

"Quarry is lost, sir," reported one of his troopers. "We chased a dark human male and the two young human females away from the operation site, but lost them after the explosion."

He resisted the urge to swear vociferously at the man. "Return to operation site," he said instead, with what he felt was admirable calm considering the situation. His hand tightened helplessly around the comlink for a moment as he wondered how in the nine _hells_ Luke Skywalker always managed to turn a perfectly textbook operation into an unqualified disaster.

A young, female voice was getting louder behind him, and in another second he heard the brunette girl shouting desperately for her friend as she took in the destruction. He spun around briskly and saw his surviving men emerging around the corner of the building, the girl with them.

"Two of you, get her back to base and transfer her up to the _Obviator_'s detention block immediately," he ordered. "Lord Vader will not accept any excuses for losing her, and neither will I."

With terse nods, the two troopers restraining the girl tightened their grips around her arms and marched her away.

"The rest of you," Baranne continued, "we're searching that building for survivors. Set for stun." He clicked on the comlink and relayed the order to the soldiers stationed on the other sides of the building, then primed his blaster and got in behind the point wedge his men had already formed and followed them into the smoking wreckage.

They hadn't gotten very far before they heard a very loud, very young, and very distressed yell from somewhere within.

* * *

Luke instantly forgot about keeping still; on the other hand, staying awake was suddenly no problem at all. He yelled in pure terror and hurled himself over and forward, scrambling up the ramp for all his life was worth—but he felt the air freeze around him just as he got near the top, and the next second an invisible hand had picked him up, rotated him until he was flat on his back, and maneuvered him head-first into the shuttle, where he was settled on the floor. Squirm though he would, he could not do more than wiggle his fingers and toes.

A few seconds later, both Obi-Wan and the homicidal troll reappeared, leaning over him.

"Lie still, you must," advised the green gnome in the most hideously cheerful voice Luke had ever heard. He trembled at its nightmarish grin, waiting to feel the green lightsaber blade burn straight through him.

_Obi-Wan, save me!_

"Luke," sighed his old Master aloud, "Master Yoda means you no harm."

"I'm not worried about Yoda! I'm worried about _that_!"

"'That' _is_ Master Yoda."

Luke stared up in consternation. "But you tried to _kill _me!"

"Tried to kill you, I did?" the troll demanded indignantly. "The other way around, it was, young Padawan!"

Obi-Wan glared quite sternly at Luke. "Don't think you've gotten out a lecture just because you might have a concussion," he informed him. "And when _we're_ done instructing you on the acceptable uses of droids and cleaning solvent, I'm sure your father will be happy to pick up where we left off."

Luke, however, had been on the receiving end of lectures from his father and Obi-Wan before, and since there was no way the troll could possibly be worse, the threat did not faze him. "If you weren't trying to kill me, how come you snuck into my home and stole Han's comlink and passcodes and attacked me with a krethin' _lightsaber_?"

"Language!" Obi-Wan chastised reflexively. Then, more gently, "I think that there have been a few misunderstandings along the way, Luke. Master Yoda and I were under the impression that you were in danger from the droids."

"The only thing I was in danger from was _him_!"

Yoda wrinkled his nose derisively. "In danger from many things you were in that place, but one of them _I_ was _not_." He gave Obi-Wan a Pointed Look the likes of which Luke had only seen his father match.

"What was I in danger from, then?" Luke demanded, wishing he could cross his arms indignantly. He couldn't, so he glowered as much as possible to compensate.

"Imperative, it is, that removed from the touch of the Dark Side, you be," Yoda told him. His voice had gotten less strident, and Luke was surprised to find that his withered, wrinkled little face looked much less threatening. He even started to relax a little bit—but then he suddenly realized what Yoda had meant.

The Jedi Master had gone to Bast Castle to take _him_ away. Away from his father.

_No! Not again! He can't do that! I have to find Han and Sara and Sandra and I have to take them back home and I won't let him stop me no I won't I won't_—

He didn't even realize that he'd somehow broken free of Yoda's hold on him—that he'd leapt up and started running—all he knew was that suddenly he was back out, flailing his way through the thick, dust-laden air in the blasted-out hangar, and Yoda and Obi-Wan were shouting his name behind him—

But somebody was shouting his name _ahead_ of him, too.

It was Baranne.

Baranne would take him back to his father. Baranne would try to find his sisters.

Luke yelled at the top of his lungs.

* * *

"Luke?" the agent called cautiously. Safely shielded behind a wall of troopers, Baranne was peering between their shoulders and trying to get spot any sign of Luke Skywalker—not that it was really possible, what with the thrice-cursed billows of smoke and thick dust choking the air. He coughed violently and rubbed at burning eyes, envying for a moment the protective helmets of the stormtroopers in front of him. Force, he'd never find the kid before he could slip out of the building. Unless Luke was unconscious.

Not that that was necessarily a desirable state of affairs. Force only knew what Vader would do if the boy were seriously injured.

"Luke!" Maybe the kid was dead. _There_ was a happy thought.

"Luke Skywalker!" Well, if he was dead, Baranne hoped the youngster had at least had the decency to have been struck directly by the laser blast and been vaporized on the spot. At least then he could tell Lord Vader there was a _chance_ the boy had survived. Of course, given Skywalker's track record thus far when it came to considering Baranne's interests—

"I'm here! I'm over here!"

"Sir, voice ID, bearing 0-0-3!"

The fog and clouds dissipated ahead of them, and the agent's heart leapt as he glimpsed the blurry outline of a smallish figure up ahead. Thank the Force! Maybe this operation could be salvaged after a—

A blaze of green suddenly split through the smoky, opaque air. Blaster bolts immediately began to stab towards it over Luke's head as his men opened fire on the selfsame renegade Jedi who'd wreaked such havoc only a few minutes earlier. Baranne quickly ducked behind his men and had to turn his head away as more smoke plumed into his face. He tried to cough orders for reinforcements into his comlink, but he couldn't get more than a word or two out at a time, and even those he did get out were being obscured by the screech of blaster and the angry spitting of the lightsaber and fading shouts from Luke and the howl of a ship engine—

Ship engine! His men redoubled their fire, pushing forward, but the Jedi had seized Luke and sealed both of them aboard the _lambda_ shuttle. They pounded the hull with laster fire, but then the shields burst up and hurled all of them back, and the repulsors kicked up the dust afresh as the ship exploded upward out of the hangar.

_Damn_.

* * *

_On Vjun…_

* * *

Unsurprisingly, the first session had not lasted very long.

Vader stalked from the detention cell, still quivering with impotent rage. Unsurprising, but none the less infuriating for that. Anything to do with Jedi was infuriating at any time. When one of them had been involved in the disappearance of his _children_, and would say _nothing_ about the matter—

The guards lined along the detention corridor flinched as the dark lord's fist almost involuntarily punched an enormous crater into the solid durasteel wall. It was in no way due to his exemplary self-control that those same guards survived his passage—every single one of Vader's murderous thoughts were concentrated on Ferus Olin, on how dearly he wanted to translate his own agony of mind into physical torment for the never-to-be-sufficiently-accursed Jedi…

Unfortunately for his desires, Olin had endured far too much punishment prior to his arrival for the Jedi to be capable of withstanding much more at the moment. His former rival had lost his consciousness long before his resolve. Vader had already ordered the prison medics in—when next he paid the Jedi his respects, he wanted the man to be…fully appreciative of his efforts. But not only did that necessity prevent him from the satisfaction of venting his fury on the other—it was also that much more time lost in the pursuit of his little ones. Olin was a trained Jedi—he had not yielded an inch. Not yet.

Vader drove his unfeeling fist explosively into the inner wall of the turbolift carrying him back up to the command floor. The artificial nerves responded angrily to the impact, but it was not nearly painful enough to distract him from the much greater agony in his mind—which had spent every second of the past sleepless days desperately seeking through the vagaries of the Force for some clue as to his children's whereabouts. The Force responded with nothing but the same awful, empty stillness, just as it had all those months ago when he had last been searching for Luke. Wherever the boy was, he had vanished within the shroud of his flawless shields, and Vader could only assume that his son was similarly protecting his younger sisters.

He had even made a wildbrained attempt to locate Solo. Of course, the effort was utterly futile. Palpatine could not have picked out one unremarkable Force-blind teenager amidst the trillions packed into the galaxy. And that was assuming Solo was alive. Given the chip implant, it was unlikely the Corellian had survived the kidnapping.

Vader was unpleasantly surprised to find that the thought did not sit well with him. Insouciant though Solo had been, the Corellian had been devoted to Luke. And in his less dark moments, Vader had to admit that he was secretly entertained by Solo's quick banter.

His anger seemed to congeal and settle in his stomach in a cold, nauseating mass. As he stepped out of the lift into the control center, he felt nothing so much as exhausted. A quick glance around the control center was enough to assure him that he was not the only one in torment. Seated at a conference table on the right side of the room, dark eyes resting dully on the investigation teams at their terminals, was Miyr.

The change in his administrator was shocking. She had been at the landing pad when he arrived, as always, and had made a valiant effort at maintaining an aura of consummate professionalism. But he had sensed the violent emotional maelstrom the second he laid eyes on her, and the agonized guilt in her voice as she reported her own scant involvement in the kidnapping had vaporized any inclination he might have had to exact payment for her failure to protect her charges.

He could not bring himself to punish the one person who was in as much agony of mind as he was. Even had the Force not revealed to him the nearly maternal depth of her pain, it would have been obvious from the fact that she barely ate, never slept, and never left the control center. Her duties were going unfulfilled, a failure he supposed he ought to correct, but the deputy administrators seemed to be managing. Besides—the intensity of her distress was proof that she was dedicated to the welfare of his children.

Miyr, quite possibly, was the only member of his Bast Castle staff he did _not_ plan on replacing.

To his own vague surprise, he found his strides leading him towards her where she sat in bleary-eyed disconsolation. He knew not why, unless it was the draw of shared misery. Fortunately for his reputation, Landre intercepted him halfway there. For the first time since Vader's arrival, a glimmer of hope was visible through the resignation on his face.

"My lord, there is a secure call from one of your agents," he announced. "From Corellia."

"Put it through to my communications suite," Vader ordered him tersely. The holographic image of Baranne was waiting in the projector when he swept in and sealed off the chamber.

"My lord," Baranne acknowledged.

"You have news?"

"Yes, my lord. My team on Corellia was able to track Luke Skywalker to a cantina in Coronet, where an information broker gave us enough intelligence to set up a retrieval operation in the main spaceport strip."

A surge of impossible hope rose within him. "And you were successful?" Vader demanded anxiously.

Baranne frowned. "I'm sorry to say we were not entirely successful, no. My team ran into a number of complications that prevented complete success. Quite frankly, we're still attempting to sort out all the details—"

"Do you have Skywalker?" he demanded.

"We do not," Baranne admitted.

"And _how_," Vader hissed, "do you intend to explain that failure when you had him within your grasp?"

Baranne was not nearly as terrified as he ought to have been. Clearly the hologram transmission was not doing his rage justice. "As I said, my lord, there were a great many complications. Several third parties became involved. We seem to be missing many of the pieces, but as far as I've been able to determine, Skywalker arrived on Corellia with a young female companion and proceeded to the Lucky Saber Cantina, a locale he and Kenobi were known to frequent during their previous sojourn in Coronet. At that cantina he met several times with an information broker, who claimed that the boy wanted him to track a ship on which he believed a friend of his was being held captive. The broker was able to track this ship to Hangar 1138 on the main spaceport strip."

Vader's fists were clenching reflexively—he forced them to be still. When the Death Star was completed, Corellia might just find itself the first test target. If he had anything to say about it, that was.

"Skywalker and his female companion appeared in the area as anticipated, and my team prepared to retrieve them with full aerial and ground coverage available. We intercepted them as they exited the hangar. Apparently they retrieved two very young human female children from the craft our sensors picked up inside the building. We proceeded with securing them and transporting them to the nearest military facility, but they apparently misunderstood our intentions and offered resistance."

"And you were unable to overcome four _children_?" Vader snapped furiously.

"The children would have posed no difficulty, my lord, but they did spark a moment of disorientation, and an unidentified sniper was poised to take advantage of it."

Vader stiffened. "A sniper?"

"We confirmed one sighting," Baranne acknowledged. "It is possible that there was more than one. An airvan also broke out of the hangar and routed at full speed and repulsor strength through the area. Several of my men were severely injured as a result. I was unable to reorganize and reconcentrate the squad before a second attacker arrived."

The agent cleared his throat. "Given that the second attacker's weapon of choice was a lightsaber, I am forced to assume it was a Jedi."

"Jedi," Vader hissed. "You are certain?"

"Beyond a reasonable doubt, my lord."

Vader toyed half-seriously with the idea of putting Baranne on hold for five minutes, so as to march down to the dungeons and dispatch of Olin then and there. He restrained himself. News of further Jedi involvement only served to prove that he needed Olin alive more than ever.

"Needless to say, the situation was very chaotic, and I confess I lost track of the whereabouts of Skywalker and the younger females. Nonetheless, I believe the operation might still have been redeemable up until we were strafed by a renegade TIE."

"A renegade TIE," Vader repeated numbly. Was there no end to this planet's determination to thwart his every ambition?

"I'm afraid so, my lord. I have an investigation team on it as we speak. The pilot claims that his systems locked him out, and from what the technicians tell me so far, it seems quite likely that the fighter was indeed sabotaged. In any case, it thoroughly disarrayed the situation. Several of my squad were killed or incapacitated. From the reports I have, it seems that one of the snipers fled the scene with the two young human females. Skywalker, on the other hand, seems to have escaped the strafing by dodging back into the hangar. We entered the building in search of him and made voice ID, but from what I surmise the Jedi collected him aboard the ship contained within the hangar and escaped the Corellian system while our aerial complement was chasing down the renegade TIE. The only target we were able to retain was the older human female, who is in our custody now."

The sickening, cold nausea settled back into his gut. Sara, Sandra, vanished into the seedy depths of Coronet, at the mercy of a complete stranger…Luke, once again in the clutches of the Jedi…The edge of the console crumpled in his clenching grip. "Have you identified this young woman?" he demanded distantly.

"She has refused to answer any questions from myself or the other investigators," Baranne said, "but I think you may recognize her image. Transmission commencing."

It was, of course, impossible for his electronically regulated heart to stop, but Vader swore it missed a beat when the holoprojector suddenly blossomed into the image of a young brunette girl with large, liquid brown eyes and an unmistakably regal bearing. The savage, vengeful, unadulterated _delight_ that swept through him was too delicious for words.

"As bizarre as it sounds, my lord," Baranne's voice continued through the speakers, "I think she's Princess Leia Organa."

Vader stood, feeling his senses dim in the deluge of black satisfaction he felt at the knowledge that Bail Organa's child was at his mercy. The situation remained desperate, but at least now the dark lord had the leverage he needed to extract himself from the compromising situation the senator's espionage had forced him into just recently. Furthermore, it was faintly possible that the girl could give him information on the whereabouts of his three children. Maybe Solo's as well.

"Transfer her to Fifth Fleet immediately," he ordered. "I want her secure aboard my flagship when I arrive."

"Already in motion, my lord," Baranne affirmed. "I have all available men searching Coronet for the two younger females and the hovervan, and with your permission have ordered the local commander to seal the system and request reinforcements. I myself will see to tracking down Skywalker and the Jedi."

Vader's wrath abated slightly. It was distantly possible that his agent would survive this fiasco after all. He cut the connection and rushed out into the control center, leveling a finger at Landre. "Prepare my shuttle," he boomed. "Have the Jedi prisoner transferred aboard. If all is not ready for my departure in ten minutes, the consequences will be dire."

"Immediately, my lord," the captain acknowledged hastily.

"The administrator will be coming with me," Vader added.

Behind him, Miyr surged out of her seat and nodded at him, wiping a brisk hand across her eyes as she hastened into the turbolift without a single word of protest.

* * *

_Back on Corellia…_

* * *

Lando had expected that things would get quieter after he got away from the firefight and the freaked-out TIE fighter. Was he ever wrong.

"Put me down! Put me down! Put me down put me down put me down down down down down DOWN DOWN _DOWN_—"

While one of the twins shrieked this charming melody more or less directly into Lando's eardrum at point-blank range, the other bawled a monotonous, wordless harmony in time with the percussion pattern the first was beating on his chest.

Now making his way down a crowded market street, Lando gave a strained smile to passersby, who stared in distaste at the spectacle the twin terrors were providing. He would have been worried about their opinion of him if his heart weren't still racing from the bizarre experience he'd just had on the Strip. They were now four commuter train rides and multiple bus hops away from the Strip—practically on the opposite side of Coronet, in fact—but the knowledge was not enough to put him at ease.

Well. Wandering aimlessly through the city streets with two screaming toddlers was not going to help him think through what had happened and what he ought to do now that his life had thrown him such an exponential curve. Lando lugged the squirming, screeching balls of fury inside the next hotel he saw and managed to extract a credit chip from his pocket with enough on it to pay for a one-night stay. It was with profound relief that he deposited them on the carpet of Room 712, locking the door behind him.

"Want Dadda!" one of them promptly wailed. Her identical twin took up the new mantra instantly.

"Want Dadda! Want Dadda! Want Dadda want Dadda want Dadda…" They were now huddled by the door, trying in vain to reach the control panel, and sobbing full-force.

"Want Luke!"

"Want Miyr!'

"Want Landa!"

"Want Dadda!"

"Dadda, Dadda, Dadda…"

"_Quiet!"_ Lando yelled, rubbing his forehead. Their blue eyes went very wide, and small tearstreaked faces stared at him, pale with fright. "Sorry," he said, halfheartedly.

"Who's_ dat_?" one of them demanded tearfully of the other.

"Dunno," she sniffed.

Lando had never felt so totally inadequate in his life. Smugglers, bounty hunters, Hutt crime lords he could handle—but faced with two sobbing unidentified little girls, his vast underworld experience came to naught. "I'm not gonna hurt you," he said, holding up his hands in what he hoped was an unthreatening manner.

They huddled together as closely as ever, evidently unconvinced. "Want Dadda," one of them insisted.

"Okay, okay," he said hastily, praying they weren't about to start screeching again. "I'm gonna help you find your dad, all right?"

"Dadda?" they said hopefully.

"Yeah, yeah, Dadda," he agreed fervently. "But you're gonna have to tell me some things so I'll know who I'm looking for, all right?"

They considered this with remarkable solemnity for two such young children. "All right," the more vocal one agreed, not without a scowl that, had it been on a less adorable face, would have been quite fearsome.

"All right," he repeated, running his hand through his hair. "How about you sit down on that bed, and I'll sit on this one, and we'll talk?"

They seemed to be much more trusting with the promise that he would help find their father. Holding hands tightly, they made their way over, and even let him help them up onto the bed. He sat down opposite them on the other. "My name is Lando," he said. "Lando Calrissian."

"Wissy," attempted the louder one.

He grimaced. "Cal-rish-un," he repeated slowly.

"Wishin," she said.

"_Cal_-rish-un."

"Kwishin."

"Close enough," he sighed.

"Kwishy," said the other one hesitantly. Lando rubbed his forehead with a soft groan, but decided there were more important things to sort out here.

"What's your names?" he asked.

"I's Sara," said the louder one. "Das Sandra." She pointed to her sister.

"Sara and Sandra," he repeated. "What's your last name?"

"Kywakka."

"Ky-wakka?" he repeated. Somehow, he had a feeling that wasn't the most accurate pronunciation, but he also had a feeling they weren't going to be able to give him anything better. "Can you spell it?" he tried without much hope.

They shook their heads forlornly. "Ky, _wakka_," Sara said again emphatically, her forehead screwed up and her head bobbing comically in her effort to get it across.

"Okay, Kywakka," he repeated, trying to sound a little less dubious. Maybe there was some kind of comparison-analysis program he could run, get an idea of what surnames sounded similar to "Kywakka." Hells, for all he knew, it _was_ Kywakka. Force knew he'd run into weirder names than that. Sounded a bit Kalanthan, even. Or was it Berean?

"All right," he tried, "what's your dad's name?"

Sara gave him a supremely disdainful look. "_Dadda_," she said, as if it should have been utterly obvious.

"But do you know what other people call him?" Lando pressed hopefully.

They thought for a moment. "Miyr says my lord," Sandra ventured softly.

Lando stared, suddenly excited. Maybe these two had been kidnapped from some powerful nobleman or something. Heck, for all he knew, their dad could rule a planet somewhere. Getting them back to him might be a really good idea in more ways than one, now that he thought about it. Their dad would probably be really grateful.

Hopefully in a very financial sort of way.

On the other hand, the sobering thought soon occurred to him that _if_ their dad ruled a planet, he probably wasn't somebody that Lando Calrissian wanted to tick off. He'd better try and get these two back to him in very short order, before someone accused _him_ of being the kidnapper. Or whatever.

"What's your mom's name?" he said. It was worth a shot, after all.

"Mamma," Sara said, predictably.

"She died," Sandra added softly.

"A really long time ago," Sara elaborated.

"She was the prettiest mamma in the whole galaxy," Sandra informed him. "Dadda said so."

Lando felt a slight twinge of sympathy. Sounded like their mother had probably died when they were born. It wasn't too typical a thing to happen in upper class families, but he supposed it wasn't unheard of. In any case, it was pretty obvious that they didn't know their mother's actual name anymore than their father's. "Do you have any brothers or sisters?" he asked. Maybe he could do some sort of cross-reference in the galactic database.

"We gots a big brother," Sara said.

"What's his name?"

"Luke," they chorused.

Lando did a double-take. "Luke?" he repeated in total surprise. With new eyes he scrutinized their features. Now that he was looking for it, they _did_ look sort of like Luke—blonde hair, those big blue eyes. Maybe even a little bit of similarity in the face, but it was hard to tell when they were still so young. "Is he about this high, blonde hair, blue eyes?" Lando demanded.

They nodded. "He's _way_ bigger than us," Sara emphasized. "He's even bigger than _ten_."

Ten years, he supposed they meant. Well, that would be about right—the kid was what, thirteen?

"We didn't knows 'bout him until Dadda found him," Sandra explained.

Lando was suddenly listening very, very carefully. "Is that so," he murmured.

"Yeah," Sara affirmed. "He got lost when he was just a little baby, and Dadda didn't think he would ever find him, but he did. 'Cept now he's big and he's not a baby anymore."

"How long ago did your dad find him?" Lando demanded. "Was it a real long time ago?"

"Nuh-uh," Sara said. "Not _real_ long ago. I dunno how much."

"Do you guys know somebody named Han Solo?" Lando asked quickly.

Sara scowled fiercely, looking even cuter than ever. "He thinks too loud," she complained resentfully. "I don't likes him."

Lando could certainly sympathize with that sentiment. "When did you meet him?"

"He came to live with us," Sandra said matter-of-factly. "Dadda said he was Luke's friend. I think he wanted to fly away with Luke, but Dadda wouldn't let him. He said Han had to stay with us and Miyr."

"Who's Miyr?"

"She takes care of us," Sara said. "When Dadda's not home."

"Is your dad not home a lot?"

They nodded. "He works on a big ship," Sara said brightly. "It's a _really_ big ship." She spread her short arms as wide as they would go. "He said he has to tell the ship where it gotta goes and what it gots to do."

Lando felt something sinking ominously in his stomach as Sara chattered on about the topic of her dad's big ship. Their dad commanded a big ship.

Was their dad Vader's admiral, or one of his senior officers?

That would make a lot of sense. It would explain why Imperials were looking for Luke, for one. Maybe the kid had run away from his dad. And Han had said Vader had Luke…and he'd gone off to find the kid…

Lando jumped off the bed and flicked on the computer terminal to do an image search. He pulled up a whole sheet of images of senior Imperial admirals. "Here," he said. "Come over here and tell me if one of these pictures is your dad."

They clambered up into the chair in front of the terminal. "Nuh-uh," Sara said promptly.

"How do you know?" Lando demanded. "You haven't looked at them all yet."

Sara gave him another patronizing look. Lando found himself vaguely admiring the sheer amount of attitude she'd managed to concentrate in such a small package. It reminded him of Luke's little brunette girlfriend, just on a smaller scale. "Dadda doesn't look like _that_," she said. Beside her, Sandra nodded.

"Well, what _does_ your dad look like?" he asked, thoroughly befuddled.

"He's really, really big, and he gots a cape," Sara said. She stretched her hands as high over her head as they would go.

"And he only wears black," Sandra threw in.

"And he sounds like this all the time," Sara added eagerly. She cupped her small hands around her mouth and made a sound that chilled Lando's very bones.

With a shaky hand he keyed a new search item, and displayed the results. "That's Dadda!" they both crowed in delight.

Lando paled in absolute horror at the miniature projected form of Darth Vader.

No. Krething. Way.


	41. The Big Bang

A/N: Well, what do you know! An update at last. I ran into a bit of a sticking point with the last scene of this chapter, but I managed to punch through it just now, and I was so excited I just had to post right away. I'm sorry to be so slow—I really do have a good excuse this time, honestly. Well, several. First, it was end of semester, and I had 18 hours this spring, which equals insanity. Two, now that I'm home, we're busy packing up to move the family halfway across the continent in less than a month. Three, I have two graduations to attend this month in separate states. And since, of course, all of that is not NEARLY enough to keep two hands busy, my subconscious decided that this would be the perfect time to dislocate my writing arm. Yep. Fun, that. I have a feeling that a fanfic may be lurking somewhere in this experience—I mean, having three essay finals while your writing arm is stuck in an immobilizer is just full of prime comic potential. :P BUT—I got my arm out of the immobilizer on Monday, so now I can type properly again. Which is why you now have an update. Anyway—that was a really ridiculously long author's note, so I will quit apologizing and let you read the chapter. Sorry again for the delays…

* * *

Leia felt much less brave by herself.

Not that she was _alone_, exactly. Oh, no, here she was sitting in a military troop transport, squeezed between the hulking forms of the two stormtroopers that the agent had told to guard her. Each of them had one of her hands in a vise-like grip that, had it been a hair stronger, felt like it would have snapped bones. Under normal circumstances she would have protested such rough treatment loudly.

But she and the two stormtroopers did not have the transport to themselves. The benches ahead of them were full of wounded troopers, in various states of injury and undress, and a solitary emergency medic was rushing back and forth between them. Leia could not help staring in sick horror at the man closest to her—his whole left side had been grotesquely burned by one of the explosions. The pain must have been horrible, but all he did was lie there, his breath rasping in and out arrhythmically, glassy eyes fixed on the canopy of the transport.

Leia was very grateful when the medic hurried over to him and blocked her view. She was even more grateful when she felt the transport thud down onto its repulsors and shudder to a halt. More medics appeared at the hatches and rushed all the wounded troopers out on hover stretchers, and then her two stoic guards nudged her up. They emerged into an unremarkable transport bay full of stormtroopers and gray-uniformed Imperial officers. Leia didn't pay much attention to the surprised looks the latter cast her way as her stormtroopers marched her through a series of halls.

They finally took her through a door into a big, open-roofed hangar, lined down both sides with gleaming navy shuttles, one of which they boarded. Leia had no idea where the shuttle was going—she was unceremoniously stuffed into a tiny holding cubicle as the engines started up. She scarcely had enough room to turn around; an adult would have had to hunch over against one of the bulkheads, the ceiling was so low overhead.

She dropped onto the cold, thrumming deck beneath her and sat with deliberately correct posture against the wall, sternly commanding herself to be calm. Running around the underworld Coronet without any adults to look out for her had been frightening, but that had been an exciting sort of frightening, really—and she'd had Luke with her. He'd seemed to know what he was doing. Leia wondered if he would have known what he was doing here. If maybe the agent had found him.

If there was anything left of Luke for the agent to find.

Viciously Leia cut off that train of thought. It was ridiculous. After all, she'd _know_ if something happened to Luke, or to his little sisters. She wasn't really sure why she was so certain of that, but the mysterious conviction went unquestioned.

She worried nonetheless, wondering if Luke and his little sisters had gotten away, or if perhaps the green troll had taken them hostage—or worse! What if they had all been separated? Leia's stomach plunged at the thought of the two little girls lost all by themselves in the middle of Coronet City. Who _knew_ what sorts of horrible things might happen to them? Leia'd seen enough of the Strip to have no expectations of altruism from any of its inhabitants.

She hoped the agent could find them all quickly. The Empire wasn't going to hurt the children of Darth Vader, after all.

Leia Organa, on the other hand, just might be a different story.

It wasn't easy to look brave and defiant when the door to the little cubicle reopened, but she was a princess, and she had to be brave whether she felt like it or not. So she walked back out confidently and let the stormtroopers take her out of the shuttle into yet another hangar.

It didn't surprise her too much to realize that it was a shipboard hangar, but the sheer size of it impressed her in spite of her worries. This must be a Star Destroyer. Leia had never been aboard a ship this big before. She gazed around at the array of shuttles, and perked up a little as they passed a TIE fighter undergoing repairs at the hands of a battalion of mechanics. It looked much larger in person than she'd expected. And even though Leia wasn't usually the sort to be fascinated by ships and guns, she had to admit there was something very compelling about the lethally sleek lines of the fins and cannons.

With mild curiosity, she wondered whether one of her biological parents had liked ships. Well. She'd never know, would she? And there were more important things to occupy her mind right now—such as keeping track of the route the stormtroopers were taking her. Carefully Leia logged every turn and turbolift in her memory and did her best to find landmarks—which was rather hard, because all the corridors looked almost exactly the same…

They emerged from the last lift into a place Leia didn't like at all. She could see sensor banks everywhere, and the muzzles of automatic defense blasters poked out of the bulkheads. Ahead was an ovoid console station manned by three black-clad officers, contained within a shimmering security field. On the opposite side of the consoles, a long, low corridor was just visible, lit by subdued red glowbanks.

The security field switched off and one of the officers moved forward with a disdainful expression on his face. "Is this some sort of a joke?" he demanded with a sour sneer on his thin, pale lips.

"No, sir," one stormtrooper said smartly. "Prisoner is to be contained in Detention Block AA-7, orders of Agent Baranne." He produced some sort of chip, and the officer disappeared with it behind the console for a moment.

"Order confirmed," the officer announced presently, with an unconcerned shrug. He waved one of the others forward. Leia spun around frantically for a moment as the stormtroopers vanished back into the turbolift—thinking desperately that even stormtroopers were better than being left here with these horrible, cruel-faced officers—but then a second officer reached Leia and snapped a pair of cuffs on her. Stiffly she looked up, and saw he had a somewhat less frightening face than the first officer had.

He looked her over with a pair of shrewd brown eyes, gave a slight, disapproving shake of his head, and made her walk through some sort of scanning apparatus on the other side of the room. Then he took her away, down the long dark corridor, and pushed her into a cell. He snapped the binders back off and went away with them. The door swooshed shut behind his back.

Leia sat shakily down on the bench that lined one side of the small room, rubbing hands still sore from the grip of the troopers. There wasn't anything in here—the bulkheads and deck were painted black, and were bathed in the stark, unfriendly glare of an overhead glowpanel. There was no 'fresher, only a panel of grating on one side of the cell. Leia eyed it with supreme distaste, and scooted further away from that end. There was nothing else to attract her attention.

So she sat there and waited in the eerie silence, and hoped Luke and his sisters were all right.

After what felt like forever the agent showed back up, asking Leia questions about her name, her family, where she was from. She knew better than to tell him _that_, but she couldn't stop him from taking out a holocorder and snapping several images of her. She tried to ask him if Luke and the twins were all right. He smiled at her and told her that if she wanted answers she had to give them in return.

She glared in stony silence at him until he left.

After that, the world seemed to shrink into an immeasurable, eternal stillness. There was only her and the black walls and the light, which never went out or dimmed. Time broke into the monotonous nothing every now and then, in the form of sleep or an arriving meal. Despite all her indignation and disdain, she was eventually forced to make use of the grate, and consoled herself with the fact that her meals at least came with a few paper napkins.

She tried to keep busy. But there wasn't anything to do except wait and try not to feel crushed by the dense silence. She sang to herself, recited what she remembered of her lessons, anything to break the silence. Anything to engage her mind in something outside of dread and terrifying memories. She didn't want to think about what might happen if she let her mind slide into the black spiral inside her.

But it was so, so hard.

She wished her father would come.

* * *

When his shuttle emerged from hyperspace in Alderaan space, Vader was thoroughly startled to find that his habitual search for any nearby Force-sensitives turned up results. And not only was there another Force-sensitive in the vicinity besides himself and the battered Jedi with him—that Force-sensitive's presence resonated with Vader himself in a way that only one person in the entire galaxy could.

_Luke! _The cry surged out into the Force without his bidding or deliberation, furiously relieved, a cry that could not decide whether it would prefer to scold the object of its tangled emotion or seize it up and never let it go again. Baranne must have retrieved the child, somehow, while Vader's shuttle was unreachable in hyperspace—

Luke did not respond to him. Alarmed, Vader prodded the glowing presence again Not only did the boy fail to answer—it was as if he was unaware his father was touching him at all. Hastily Vader began to examine what he could of the boy's still-distant mind, seeking any sign of damage, unconsciousness, distraction—but the distance was still too great for him to discern much, especially when the boy did not reach back to him.

Vader paced the length of the cabin anxiously, desperate to reach _Executor_ and see his son, see what was the matter, calling constantly to Luke as the shuttle crawled closer. As the distance closed, it became clear that something was wrong—he could not place it, but something about Luke's presence was simply not right. It reminded him of the time just before Baranne had retrieved the boy from Alderaan—that inexplicable distortion. His son did not feel right—at the same time more fiery than normal, and softer than normal. The differences were not pronounced, and once more he was reminded of the subtle ways in which Sara and Sandra felt different to his mental touch. The last time this had happened, he had attributed it to the effect of the great distance between them—but the closer the shuttle came to the Destroyer, the clearer the distortions grew.

Perhaps there was some anomaly in the Force that was inhibiting his son's ability to answer him? But then why could Vader reach the boy without difficulty? And why were the boy's emotions still coming through clearly? For he could certainly sense them in detail now—and he did not like what he could sense. His son seemed to be frightened, lonely, worried, determined, haunted, restless, indignant—the negative emotions poured out to him in overwhelming strength.

What cause did his son have to be distressed? He might have thought that the child was distressed by this inexplicable inability to contact him, but there was no hint of frustration—which Luke most certainly would have been broadcasting to the galaxy full force, if he knew anything about his son.

The only explanation for this that he could think of—_that is not my son_—was so ridiculous he shoved it angrily aside. Of course it was his son! The boy's deep, unavoidable pull on him was utterly unmistakable. It was the root-deep, natural bond of a child and parent. He had three children, and the depth, the intensity, the _rightness_ of their tug on him was completely in a class by itself. No other Jedi, no master, no random Force-sensitive being could have duplicated the connection he had with his son! His son that _must_ be.

Furious, terrified, he paced madly up and down the length of the shuttle. Miyr's dark eyes followed him, although she did not move from her seat. "My lord?" she asked hesitantly. "Is something wrong?"

"I do not know," he said with more terse honesty than he would have extended to anybody else in the known galaxy.

"The children?" she asked anxiously. Vader paused to regard her. Truly he had chosen well when he hired this woman to care for his children. Miyr seemed to consider them her own—which was as well, since his children had no mother.

"Luke," he said, a bit less brusque than before. Anybody who loved his children would have to work very hard indeed to incur his undying wrath. Unless, of course, "anybody" happened to be Han Solo. But that infuriating young Corellian was a breed unto himself.

"It may be nothing," he added, seeing that his administrator was becoming upset. That, of all things, he did not need. The woman would need to see to the handling of this young princess when they arrived, and Vader was quite sure that require her to be in full form. Reports of the, ah, _colorful_ fate that had befallen Grand Moff Tarkin when he made the mistake of irritating the precocious Leia Organa had not failed to reach him.

While he admitted to a secret jealousy that he had not thought of dyeing the man purple himself, Miyr would doubtless need all the experience she had to keep so mischievous a child under control.

Thank the Force none of _his_ children were that rambunctious.

Well, at least not intentionally. Although it could not be denied that Luke managed to wriggle his way between every rock and hard place known to mankind, it was generally trouble that chased his son, and not the other way around. His son was a veritable electromagnet for catastrophe—how many boys could turn a controlled dueling room into the flaming seventh circle of hell in two minutes flat?—and the dark lord was not looking forward to discovering what could have happened that would leave him so utterly unresponsive to his father's calls.

The shuttle touched down in _Executor_'s main hangar bay; Vader was halfway down the ramp before it had even finished extending. Baranne was waiting at the bottom, with his trademark ubiquitous expression and blank gray eyes, hands held behind his back in a pseudo-military stance. "My lord," he acknowledged with a slight nod of the head.

"I wish to see Skywalker," he demanded point blank, not stopping. The agent swung into step alongside him.

"I have several investigators following up potential vectors and have alerted garrisons in possible destination systems," Baranne said. "I expect to have further updates shortly. It's not as though civilians commonly fly around in _lambda_ shuttles, after all, so spotting them shouldn't be difficult."

Vader turned sharply to stare at his agent. "You have not found him?" he said incredulously.

Baranne shook his head. "No, my lord—as I reported to you earlier, we are currently tracking the vector and likely destinations of the ship in which he appears to have departed system. I'm afraid I can't expect even preliminary reports to begin arriving for another thirteen or so hours. In all likelihood it will be another week at the minimum before I have enough confirmed information to mount another retrieval operation." He paused, as though very unhappy to say anything more, but added, "I wouldn't be at all surprised if the search takes several months. Skywalker has proven remarkably elusive in the past."

They boarded a turbolift and Vader leveled an accusing finger at his agent the second the doors were sealed. "You had best not be playing games with me, Baranne," he snarled.

The agent blinked. "I would never dream of it, my lord," he said, sounding quite befuddled.

The odd thing was—although Vader could sense Luke's (admittedly distorted) presence as plain as day, he could equally clearly sense that his agent was not lying to him.

Did the agent not know Luke was aboard? Had his son snuck onto the ship unnoticed?

"Then why," Vader remarked to his agent, "do I sense the boy's presence aboard this ship?"

Baranne stared at him in total surprise. "Aboard this ship?" he repeated incredulously. "You're sure?"

"Incontrovertibly."

Vader observed in mild surprise as the agent swore softly under his breath. It was the most that Baranne had ever lost control in his presence since he'd hired the man. "_Drat_ that boy," he hissed, rubbing his forehead. "It would be just like him. Apologies, my lord, but Skywalker has given me more headaches than any other assignment in my experience."

_You have no idea_, Vader thought wryly.

"Can you track him down?" the agent asked.

Vader checked the passive presence in the Force again. It seemed that the turbolift was carrying them closer. "Yes," he announced. "Stop the lift in another four levels."

"That's the detention level," Baranne muttered. "I wonder—nine hells!"

Vader glanced at him, taking a moment to stop composing the lecture he planned on delivering to his son the second he had him tucked safely away in his private chambers. "What is it?"

"I'd bet my next paycheck he's after his girlfriend," the agent told him. "The princess, she's being held in the detention block. Shall I alert security?"

Vader paused. It was quite possible that the boy would try to release the little princess. Luke had mentioned something to the effect that Bail Organa had given him assistance prior to Vader's retrieval of him—of course, the fact that that assistance had taken the form of hiding him from his own father was irrelevant to the young one. Misinformed though his son's perspectives might yet be, the point was that he might think it incumbent upon himself to do the same favor for Leia Organa.

Perhaps, even, the boy was so focused upon his grand adventure that he had failed to notice his father's arrival?

Entirely possible.

"No," he told the agent. "I will deal with them myself. They are only children."

Baranne did not look as though he agreed with Vader's assessment of the amount of resistance these particular children were capable of offering. Wisely, he kept silent.

The lift stopped, admitting them to the detention level. "Block AA-7," Baranne told him, "this way."

The direction corresponded with his sense of Luke's location. Vader led the way swiftly down the corridors, flattening the occasional detention officer against the bulkheads with the sheer speed of his passage while Baranne followed in his wake. He burst into Block AA-7 with the force of a descending deity.

The officers on duty at the front console looked up, startled and abruptly terrified. "My lord," the senior officer said smartly, deactivating the security shield and stepping out to welcome him. "You wish to speak with a prisoner?"

"Get out of my way," Vader barked, sweeping around the console. The officer scrambled aside with a hasty salute, but Vader did not spare a second thought for him. He was already proceeding down the corridor of cells, scrutinizing every square inch for some sign of Luke. But his son's bright presence only led him to the front of Cell Number AA713, and despite the fact that Vader was now practically shouting in the boy's mental ear, he remained deaf and passive, answering with nothing more than a general projection of fright, dismay, loneliness—and, most prominently of all, ferocious determination.

Had he somehow locked himself inside?

Vader stabbed at the control panel of the door, which seemed to take forever before it opened to reveal the interior of the cell—which was completely empty save for the diminutive form of a brunette girl huddled on the bench. She stared up at him with wide, liquid brown eyes, arms wrapped around her knees.

Speechless, Vader stared back at her.

* * *

"Lie still, you must," Yoda said, for what was probably the thirty-seventh time since the shuttle jumped into hyperspace less than ten minutes ago. Despite that, his voice remained patient. Obi-Wan could tell that, for all his vociferous protests, Luke was secretly a bit impressed that the diminutive Jedi Master had not yet exploded.

Of course, Luke did not know that Master Yoda had been dealing with recalcitrant younglings for the past nine hundred years or so.

Normally, in Obi-Wan's experience, Yoda would not have put up with such repeated disobedience. But this was hardly "normally." Luke had every reason to be upset, and Yoda had wisely taken a gentler approach once he had the boy out of reach of Vader's agents. He had relied on diplomacy to convince the boy to stay on the med bunk, rather than on the Force. Fortunately, Luke knew enough to recognize medical wisdom when he heard it—especially after a scan had confirmed that he had sustained a concussion.

Unfortunately, he did not trust Yoda anything like enough to let the Jedi Master heal him.

"You can't take me!" Luke declared fiercely, managing not to thrash. "I have to rescue Han!"

For all his frantic outrage, Luke had not yet made any mention of his younger sisters to the Jedi Master, a fact that had not escaped Obi-Wan's notice. Clearly he felt to do so would be detrimental to their safety, or contrary to his father's wishes—possibly both.

The deceased Jedi did not volunteer the information himself. Far be it from him to disregard the Master's clearly-expressed opinion that consulting the dead was unnecessary…

"In danger, your friend Han is?" Yoda questioned mildly. Luke nodded frantically. "Lie still, you must!" the diminutive Jedi enjoined hastily, stilling the boy's head with a quick paw. "Now. Your friend, where is he?"

"Sumdykinnaptim," Luke fired off.

Yoda shook his head. "Patience, you must have," he admonished. "More slowly, you must speak. Old, these ears are, hmm?"

"Somebody kidnapped him," Luke got out with painful deliberacy, half-squirming with the difficulty of restraint.

"Hmm, hmm—"

"And now _you're_ kidnapping _me_!" Luke added indignantly. "You don't have any right to take me away from my father!"

"Upset, you are?" Yoda questioned gently.

"_Yes_!"

"Much there is of your father that you know not, young one," the Jedi said gravely. "Unsafe with him, you are."

"He isn't going to hurt me!" Luke shouted angrily.

"So certain, are you?" Yoda murmured sadly. "As sure, I wish I could be, young Skywalker."

"What do you mean?" Luke demanded. "What don't I know?"

"Tell you, I will not," Yoda said firmly. "Not for children's ears, are such things. Wait, you must, until older you have grown."

Luke had had enough. "Obi-Wan! What's he talking about?"

Obi-Wan glanced reflexively at Yoda, and shook his head slightly. "You have grown much, young Luke, but Master Yoda is correct. You are not yet ready."

Luke burst upward, Yoda's injunctions about lying still totally forgotten. "You can't take me away without telling me why!" he shouted.

"Patient, you must be," Yoda said, more sternly. "Trust us, you must. Too young, you are, to make such decisions yourself. Too much weight for one so young."

Luke turned helplessly to Obi-Wan. "But you said he needed me!" he cried.

"He does," Obi-Wan said, with a defiant glance at Yoda. "Master Yoda feels that the risk to you is too great, however."

"But you don't," Luke declared desperately. "You don't, do you?"

Obi-Wan settled for another silent, very pointed look at Yoda. "I think that the situation is complex and that there are other considerations involved," he said diplomatically. "Such as the security of your friend, Han. Surely you must consider the safety of another innocent child as well as Luke's, Master."

"True, this is," Yoda declared. "Leave your friend in danger, I will not."

Luke blew out a breath. He was far from happy. But at least he'd convinced them to rescue Han. The problem was, he didn't really know where Han was. It wasn't with his sisters anymore, that was for sure. But at least he knew that Sara and Sandra were with Lando—or maybe Baranne and his men had caught up with them by now. Either way, they were probably safe.

He had no idea how safe Han might be.

"Now," Yoda said. "Your friend. Where is he?"

"I don't know," Luke said automatically. "He might have been on that air van that left the hangar. Did you see it?"

"See it, I did," Yoda agreed. "Sensed the presence of a clone aboard, I did."

Obi-Wan turned a bit sharply. "A clone?" he said curiously.

Luke frowned. "Like the Clone Wars, a clone?"

"I would assume," Obi-Wan said, casting a questioning look at Yoda. The latter nodded. "Clones do not turn rogue," the deceased Jedi Master mused. "Their genetic programming is much too accurate to allow for it, except perhaps in cases of extreme insanity…"

His voice trailed off, and he gave Yoda a very significant look, the meaning of which completely escaped Luke. Yoda only nodded gravely. "Insane, this clone is not," he announced. "Tracking him, I am still."

Luke nearly leapt out of the bunk altogether. "You know where he's going?" he said excitedly.

Yoda nodded in the affirmative. "Follow him, we will," the Jedi Master announced.


	42. Two and Two Make Four

A/N: Should I even bother apologizing this time? :P

Seriously, though, I've been really busy since the last update. Doctor's appointments and road trips and graduations and packing and unpacking out the wazoo. Obviously all that tends to be a bit time-consuming, and I've been wrestling with my muses on both my major stories. The muses for this one are still cooperating, but only because I'm blackmailing them. Sometimes I guess you just have to sit down and type. So I did for the last couple of days until I got enough written to post you another chapter. Don't know that it's much of a chapter—I think it moves rather slowly—mostly another chunk of gap-filler. Well, I guess something important _almost_ happens…

* * *

Vader stared stupidly into the cell for what felt like forever, as though if he only stared at its small brunette occupant long enough, she would suddenly metamorphose into his son. He swept the tiny confined space with his eyes and all the sensors of his helmet and the Force, yet they told him the same things every time. There was only one other person in the cell. The Force said it was Luke. His eyes said it was not.

The situation simply would not fathom.

Luke was here. Luke _must_ be here. He could _feel_ the boy. The Force could not possibly misguide him so! Like a dundering idiot he traced and retraced the sensation of his son's presence, but every time it led him straight to the little Alderaanian princess. Vader knew not whether to kill the girl then and there for somehow performing the impossible feat of tricking his Force sense, or march immediately up to his quarters and call several medics to evaluate his malfunctioning brain.

After several eternities he took another step into the cell, and the movement seemed to make all the cells in his brain fire at once. The mental paralysis snapped as half-formed ideas for explaining this utter contradiction spun through his mind. Surely this girl could not be tricking him—she was a girl, for the Force's sake! Yoda himself could not have bedazzled his senses so thoroughly. Perhaps—the fingers of his mind grasped at fragments of straws—perhaps the girl had somehow acquired an imprint of his son's aura, through some heretofore unheard-of freak accident of the Force.

No—no. Too far-fetched. _He _didn't even know what he meant to say in that hypothesis.

"My lord?" he dimly heard Baranne ask behind him. "Is the boy there?"

Needing something, anything, to vent his confoundment upon, Vader whirled on his agent, seized the man by the neck, and hurled him across the corridor. "_Leave_!"

Baranne was gone without pausing for so much as a pointless apology. Intelligent man, Vader thought blackly. He turned back to the object of his consternation. Fear was surging outward from the point in space and time where little Leia Organa sat, but she did not betray more than a hint of it. She stayed sitting on the cell's bench with unimpeachable posture, her large brown eyes drilled on him.

Impressive.

He sealed the door as he stepped further in, forcibly wrestling his temper under control. He must not lose it before he understood what going on. Insights would be hard to come by if he was not controlled and deliberate, if anything escaped him.

If he killed the child before he could ask any questions.

"You are Princess Organa, are you not?" he growled.

The girl did not answer him immediately, apparently afraid of confirming that that was in fact her name. If she had any inkling of what her thrice-cursed father had been up to as of late, Vader reflected coldly, she had excellent reason to wish to deny the name of Organa. However, he was in no mood to appreciate her hesitancy.

"I do not advise that you defy me," he snarled, taking a step forward and leveling a finger at her. "Bear in mind that I have made your acquaintance before, young one."

The child considered that only a moment before nodding. She looked rather shaky, but at least she was not hysterical. Excellent. There was nothing more uncooperative than a hysterical female.

"Then you remember me, I assume."

She actually gave him a rather arch look at that, piqued by any slighting suggestion that she might _not_ recall him. Vader felt a fresh flash of irritation, but also a grudging appreciation. She had her dignity, this little one. She was older than her small frame would suggest. How old _was_ Organa's daughter, anyway?

No matter. The question was irrelevant to his purposes.

"You were discovered in the company of Luke Skywalker," Vader rumbled. "Where is he?"

She didn't waver. "I don't know."

"Indeed," Vader hissed, closing what distance remained between them and seizing her by the chin. "I will give you one more chance to recollect that information."

Fright burst through the Force, bordering on panic, and Vader did his best to ignore the inexplicable similarity of her aura to that of his son. Her hands tightened on the edge of the bench, but her voice remained relatively steady. "I said, I don't know," she repeated. "We got separated."

Vader's grip tightened in frustration, as if he could somehow physically wring his children's precise coordinate positions out of her. But honesty forced him to accept that she most likely did not know. Baranne's report supported her words. "How did you come to be in his company?" he demanded instead.

To his complete surprise, the impertinent brat spun the tables on him. "Why do you want to know?"

So unexpected was this demand from a child perhaps a fourth of his size that Vader was a full second late in answering. "That is none of your—"

She somehow wriggled free of his grip and stood right up as if she owned the whole Star Destroyer, one hand defiantly planted on her waist. "And why did you kidnap me in the first place?" she added, pointing at him.

Angrily Vader stabbed a forefinger at her. "You are an impertinent, foolish child—"

"Well _you're_ a rude, bullying, homicidal, unchivalrous, scum-sucking nerfherder!" she exploded with a stomp of her tiny irate foot. "_And _you didn't answer my question! I demand to know why I'm being kept here! I have a constitutional right! You can't arrest me without reading me the charges, I know the Imperial Constitution by heart and it says so in Article 4! And I wasn't read my legal rights either! And according to Amendment 13, you can't arrest me _anyway_ because I'm still under sixteen, and besides that you're the head of the navy and you don't _have_ any civil jurisdiction! And according to the Penal System Reform Bill you're not allowed to contain prisoners in places not equipped with proper hygienic facilities! You're in violation of at _least_ seven Imperial laws! How _dare_ you treat me this way? _Well_?"

Vader stared at her dumbfounded, silent, amazed. One word only occurred to him.

"Padmé," he murmured.

"What?" she asked, finally thrown off balance.

But something had suddenly become so glaringly obvious that he could not listen to a word the child said. He spun around and keyed open the door. "Have Dr. Siler summoned to my quarters," he barked at the nearest officer.

* * *

After pondering the question for several hours, Lando Calrissian had come to the conclusion that if Luke was right and Han Solo had indeed been kidnapped, then that uppity teenage slime bucket of a street rat _krething_ well deserved it. Somehow, _somehow_, the star-crossed entrepreneur had found it in his profiteering heart to forgive Solo for attacking him in a cantina. Heck, he could even afford to let Solo off the hook for making him jump off that dilapidated freighter's ramp onto a concrete landing pad from several meters' height.

But saddling him with the twin daughters of Darth krethin' Vader—twins in their terrible twos, no less—now that was the Eighth Mortal Sin. _How_ Solo had done it, Lando had no idea, but something this catastrophic couldn't possibly be anyone else's fault. Why the nine hells couldn't Solo have just put a blaster bolt through the back of his skull the first time they ran across each other? That would have been the civilized thing to do. But _no_, that blasted Corellian had to go and toss him into the jaws of the Sith.

Lando glanced over his shoulder at the rear seats of his ship's cockpit, where the tiny twins were tumbled over each other in the same bucket seat, sound asleep, and wondered who their mother could be. Given that their father was twice as ruthless, vicious, murderous, temperamental, and generally evil as the nastiest crime lord in the business, their mother had to have been an angel straight from the moons of Iego to produce two such adorable children.

And Luke too. That stunned Lando even more. How had Vader's son come to be running around the back alleys and scum pits of the galaxy? From what the twins said it sounded like Vader had just plain _lost_ him, somehow, years and years ago, but Lando couldn't fathom how the kid had gotten away from the Sith lord as a teenager, let alone as a babe in arms. Maybe the mother had tried to hide him or ditched him at an orphanage or something. Lando could see that. No woman in her right mind would want to even _have_ a child with Vader, let alone let the man raise one.

They'd said their mother was dead. Probably Vader had killed her once he decided he had enough kids.

_Well_, he thought with dark humor, _guess I'll be meeting her shortly, then. _One way or the other, he was probably a dead man. Vader would figure him for a kidnapper the second he showed up with the kids. On the other hand, if he _didn't_ show up with the kids, Vader would track him down and knock him off then. It was a toss-up which option would buy him more time.

In fact, as he had long since concluded, there was only one person in the whole galaxy who could stop Darth Vader from mincing Lando Calrissian into bite-size human sushi appetizers.

_I'm crazier than Solo_, Lando told himself for the fiftieth time as his ship hurtled through hyperspace towards Coruscant.

* * *

He had rarely felt more awful in his life. As Ferus' mind swam back out of black unconsciousness for the first time in days, every injury and source of pain was making itself known with a vengeance. He decided the pain would be less alarming if he didn't bother with trying to identify everything that was wrong with him, as the list would no doubt be long enough to suck the optimism out of the most exuberant teenage hotshot.

And teenage, his body informed him in no uncertain terms, he most certainly was no longer.

He lay still for a few minutes on whatever cold hard surface they'd left him on, eyes closed, coming to terms with the searing aches and trying to remember just how he'd landed in this predicament. He felt a sort of muted triumph as he remembered that Vader hadn't won anything from him yet. If the Jedi had anything to say about it, the Sith lord never would. So far as he knew, Leia Organa and Luke were still safe, and Ferus Olin would do everything in his power to keep them that way. Their Force sensitivity was at best a death sentence and at worst an asset in the hands of the Empire, and what shreds of the Jedi remained could not afford to lose that promising talent.

Well, that, and Leia was a sweet little girl he didn't want to see get hurt. He had been living on borrowed time ever since Order 66, anyway. If his inevitable death could save her young life, then he could stand to go sooner rather than later.

It'd have been nice if Vader could have been a little quicker about it, though.

The wry thought made him feel strong enough to open his eyes and attempt sitting up.

He was surprised to find that this wasn't the cell Vader had left him in. They'd moved him while he was out, apparently. A quick passive scan of the Force told him that however far he'd come from that first cell, he hadn't gotten any farther from the dark lord. Vader's overwhelming presence still lay heavy on the fabric of the Force like an ugly ink stain, and he had not forgotten about his captive Jedi, if the suffocating pressure on Ferus' mind was any indication.

As the dark lord's superior strength was quite effective at preventing Ferus' Force sense from discovering much else, he turned to his others to see if there was any more information to be had. There was a slight vibration running through the deck beneath him—they were on a ship, then. A big one, most likely, since the vibrations were so faint.

Probably Vader had dragged his Jedi prisoner back to the Imperial Fleet. Wonderful.

On the other hand, at least a Star Destroyer was a known quantity, unlike the forbidding castle structure on Vjun. Here he knew precisely what to expect—Vader, trained military officers, and hordes of stormtroopers. Outside of the detention block there were hangars at regular intervals, and armed ships with hyperdrives. The means to escape were available, if only Ferus could get within reach of them.

Ferus settled back against the wall of the cell, eyes closed once more, and began devising schemes for slipping out of the Sith's clutches.

* * *

Hyperspace countdown was under an hour now. Time to make sure nothing had slipped during shipping. It was a formality, of course, but he made a point of being meticulously professional. Particularly with special cases like this one. Given the background involved, he didn't want to take any risks at all with the merchandise. Eliminating the bonuses from the equation had made things simpler, but just because something was simple didn't mean it was easy. You didn't get these sorts of commissions by assuming things. Accordingly, he levered himself out of the cockpit seat and marched back through the ship to the hold, where the portable cryo unit had been installed on Corellia.

Everything was just as he'd left it. The merchandise hadn't budged. Not that he'd really thought it would. A Jedi Master would have been hard-pressed to do anything about being stuck in a medical freeze coma. But you didn't take chances with anything involved with Vader. Satisfied that security issues were not posing any problems, he checked the vital readouts of the cryo unit. All stats were in the green, and nothing appeared to be wavering. The medical droid was still at attention, busily fulfilling its orders to maintain constant examination of the merchandise and the unit. He had a special customer, and that customer wanted his merchandise alive and healthy, not dead.

Not that it made any difference to him personally. There wasn't any such thing as personally in this business, and if you thought there was, you weren't going to have much of a career. He had an excellent career. Dead or alive, it didn't matter to him. He was good enough to handle hot merchandise just as easily as cold. Whichever one added the most credits to his pocket was the one he preferred. This particular piece of merchandise would fill his pocket _and_ his entire cargo hold, so it was to his advantage to be solicitous about its health until he could deliver it.

Of course, this was a special case, no trail. If things had really gone south at Corellia, he'd have had to take extra time to make sure the coast was clear before pulling up anchors. But all he'd lost had been the bonuses, and they were expendable anyway. It was a shame, because they would have been worth quite a substantial amount extra, but they didn't constitute a security risk.

As for Luke, the half-anonymous blond kid—well, he seemed to be plenty busy enough keeping Vader's hounds at bay. In fact, from the scene at the hangar, he had probably already been detained by the Navy. What for, he didn't pretend to know, but he made a point of only looking gift banthas in the mouths when it was completely necessary and feasible. Now that he knew the Empire was mixed up with the kid, going back for the boy would be a much greater risk to his security than continuing on.

He paced around the cryo chamber thoughtfully and came to a stop in front of the transparent pane at the front, regarding his hibernating merchandise. "Sleep tight," he said genially. "Nap's almost over. Next stop, Coruscant."

* * *

The child he was dragging along behind him was becoming even more agitated and alarmed with every step. Vader could not pay any attention to this fact, however, because he himself was as agitated as ever he had been. Every now and then, a sudden jerk on his arm would remind him that the object of his wild ruminations had much shorter legs than he did, and he would force himself to slow his brisk pace so that the girl could keep up. But inevitably his thoughts consumed him again, and his prosthetic legs would speed up in response to his whirling brain. By the time they reached his quarters, he could sense her smaller legs burning from the workout she'd gotten trying to maintain his pace.

Feeling a subversive, snaking tingle of guilt, he deposited her in a foldout chair from a closet. "Sit," he ordered.

Eyes wide, she dropped into it like a rock. He was frightening her, he realized it, but he had no attention to spare. Fright would not kill her, after all. More important issues were afoot. "You _are_ Leia Organa," he repeated, pacing back and forth in front of her.

"I told you that," she said in a voice that was trying to sound defiant, but which came out a bit shaky.

"Your father is Bail Organa?" he pressed, pointing a finger at her.

"Ye—"

"You are _certain_?" he thundered.

Her temper made a reappearance. "I think I know who my father is," she snapped, crossing her arms.

"We will see if you do," Vader said mysteriously.

Leia had no idea what he meant by that comment, but then she hadn't had any idea what was going on since they'd brought her here. In fact, she hadn't really had any idea what was going on since Luke's call had come through back on Alderaan and her father had sent her away. With a stab of guilt, she remembered Ferus for the first time in ages. Where was he now? Had he gotten away from the castle? Was he all right? Would she ever know?

She couldn't think about her father or Luke or Ferus for very long, though, because Vader's expressionless stare remained on her silently. The great black mask never budged. She found the steady, ominous sound of the breathing apparatus difficult to ignore. So finally, she just stared back at him. If she was making him angry, he didn't show it. He just stood there, like a seven-foot-cast-iron pillar. When he got tired of standing there, he would start pacing back and forth again, and Leia wondered if he might walk himself right through the deck, but even then his mask was constantly turned to face her.

After what felt like forever, the door to the room opened and let in two people Leia had never met before. One of them was obviously a medic, probably the Dr. Siler Vader had told somebody to get. His hair looked as though it had been superglued to his scalp in an effort to keep it within Navy length regulations, but his eyebrows were the bushiest she'd ever seen.

The other was a woman dressed in navy blue with a long brown braid swung over her shoulders. Leia liked her at once. The woman looked so much like—well, she couldn't remember who, but she was sure it was somebody nice.

"Miyr," Vader said with a brisk gesture. The woman stepped ahead of the medic quickly.

"My lord?" she asked coolly.

Vader waved a hand at Leia. "This is Princess Leia Organa. She will be my…_guest_." Leia knew that what he meant was, _prisoner_.

"I understand, my lord," the woman agreed immediately. "May I ask how long?"

Vader turned slowly back to Leia, who watched him alertly. "Indeterminately," he rumbled. Leia felt her heart sink inside her chest. "Princess, this is Miyr, one of my personal assistants. She will see to your requirements…within reason."

Miyr, who apparently did not have any last name, nodded her head deeply. "Princess," she said.

Leia, feeling a bit sorry for Miyr but detesting Vader, did not bother with returning the courtesy. She opted to scowl at Vader instead, but of course he did not back down. "She is not to leave those rooms of my quarters designated for her use," the dark lord told his assistant without moving his stare one centimeter away from Leia.

So nothing had changed, really; they'd just moved her from one prison to another. Leia was beginning to believe everything Ferus had told her about how Vader treated children. He might have been nice to her that one time at home on Alderaan, when neither of them could sleep, but obviously that wasn't a habit of his.

"You don't have any right to lock me up!" she persisted. "You have to return me to my legal guardian, it's the law!"

"You could not _possibly_ be more correct," Vader agreed, his voice sounding poisonous enough to kill a dozen men. "Perhaps I shall have Senator Organa brought here so that you can repeat that speech for his benefit. I assure you, _he_ requires the reminder more than _I _do, Princess."

"You're a filthy liar," she spat, hoping against her better judgment to make him angry.

"I will not tolerate such disrespect from a child," he barked. "Be silent."

"_And_ you're a slimy, disgusting—"

"_Be silent!_"

She froze as he suddenly stepped forward and seized her by the chin. His whole hand was nearly as big as her head, and she realized with a tremor that she probably didn't even reach as high as his chest. What was she thinking, trying to make him mad? Instantly she fell silent. Much as she wanted to shout at him, she decided she wanted to keep breathing even more.

Her father wouldn't want her hurt just because she hadn't kept her mouth shut when she should. She had to play along and let him take care of things. Surely he'd find out what had happened to her soon. He'd get her away from Vader, no matter what.

"Miyr, you are dismissed for the moment," Vader said, not letting go of her. "I will summon you when I again require your services." If Miyr was at all upset by the way Vader was treating Leia, she didn't say anything. She only bowed and left, as if this sort of thing happened every day.

Maybe Miyr wasn't quite as nice as Leia had thought she would be.

"Dr. Siler," Vader boomed as soon as his assistant was gone. "Examine the girl and take a blood sample. Quickly."

Before Leia even knew what was happening, she was opening her mouth and saying _ah_ and breathing deep and following lights with her eyes and putting her hands on the portable scanner, and then all of a sudden the doctor had jabbed a needle deep into her arm. She flinched, more out of surprise than anything else, and was pushed sharply into the chair by Vader's massive glove. "Be still," he rumbled angrily. "I warn you, I have had my fill of disobedient children."

She glared fiercely at him as the medic eased the syringe out of her arm, now half full of bright red blood. "I wasn't _going_ anywhere."

"Of course you weren't," he said acidly. "Doctor, run an analysis on that sample." The doctor nodded. Vader waited until he had finished dabbing the tiny puncture in her arm clean, and then marched Leia out of the chair and through a few halls and doors. He pushed her into a Spartan room and locked the door behind her, and just like that she was alone again, waiting for something else to happen.

As she inspected her new surroundings, she became aware of a nasty feeling in her stomach that told her something else _would_ happen soon, and that it was not going to be a very nice something.

* * *

He should not have been so curt with the girl, Vader told himself as he paced back and forth in the entry room of his quarters. He should have been more patient. He should have let Miyr do more of the talking. He should have made sure the girl was comfortable in Luke's old rooms. He should have left a squadron of highly trained special forces security guards at Bast Castle to watch Luke's every move. He should not have let Landre live after the incident with Han Solo. He should not have hurt Padmé. He should not be waiting here thinking about the girl instead of trying to track his son and daughters.

He should not be sitting on the edge of his metaphorical seat waiting for Siler to come back with the results of his analysis.

But it had been all he could do not to tread on Siler's heels all the way to the medical lab and actually _watch _the man perform said analysis. Considering the question he waiting for the medic to answer, he was proud of himself for managing this much self-control.

Surely, _surely_ it could not be. The girl _could_ not be what he suspected. It was so far-fetched and theatrical as to be ridiculous. The very idea of it sounded like a spectacularly bad soap holo plot. It was too fantastical to possibly happen in real life. Certainly not _his_ life.

The door to his quarters opened. Vader whirled.

It was a cleaning droid.

He looked at it for one second of pristine calm before gathering the Dark Side and smashing it into very tiny, smoldering fragments. Then he pulverized the fragments under his boot, methodically treading what was left of the unfortunate machine into glittery dust for the next cleaning droid to sweep up.

This waiting, he thought with absurdly perfect composure, was intolerable.


	43. The Bounty Hunter's Mistake

A/N: Haha

A/N: For once, the delay is not _entirely_ my fault. This chapter would have been up two weeks ago if my wireless connection had been working properly. AND it's a pretty long chapter. AND there's a cameo from a new character, who may or may not figure somewhat in the rest of the story (haven't decided on that yet). For those of you who missed him last chapter, Luke is back, and more importantly so is another character whom we haven't really heard from in…wow, almost ten chapters. Sheesh. Well, anyway, hope you will all enjoy this latest chunk. We're getting closer to the end, I believe, but nobody panic, because I still have a lot to write and at the rate I'm going it'll probably take me another decade. :P

…

Someone new was here.

Although this was not an unprecedented event, it was not a particularly common one either. This area was very private, and her master did not make a habit of adding names to the list of beings that were permitted entrance. Any time somebody unfamiliar ventured within, it piqued her curiosity, and she would practice her skills by sneaking away from her tutors and attempting to get a glimpse of the newcomer before he or she was let into the private audience room.

Her master knew that she did so, but for all her tutors' complaints, he had never punished her for it. It was not that he was reluctant to teach harsh lessons—she'd gotten plenty of them in her twelve years of life—but he usually was quite pleased to see her putting her growing skills to use. So she did not worry at all as she slipped through some of the secret passages and dodged security sensors. Instead she focused her attention completely on the stranger.

She finally glimpsed him from a balcony overlooking the foyer of the private audience room. Her eyes widened—she recognized that man! She'd never seen him in person, but it wasn't hard to find his image on the Holonet. Fascinated, she took in the battle-scarred armor, the concealed weaponry, the sleek jetpack. Reflexively, she slipped her small fingers around the grip of her miniature blaster, and wondered whether she could land a shot on him. Probably he was much too fast for her right now—but she would be faster someday, when she'd finished her training. The bounty hunter was good, but he didn't have the talents she did.

Oddly, he was not alone. Some sort of large container was floating alongside him on a bank of repulsors. Clearly, it was for her master, whatever it was. Unable to resist, she dug a pair of compact electrobinoculars out of her pocket and zoomed in on the transparent cover.

There was somebody inside. Fiercely she wondered who this captured enemy of her master was—for of course it must be an enemy, if the bounty hunter was delivering him. She tightened up the focus and used the snapshot button to take several close-up images of the face of the prisoner. She didn't recognize him, but she could break into the intel center and run a search on these images—

Then the audience door creaked ponderously open, and the bounty hunter and his prize vanished inside. At about the same instant, a hand landed on her shoulder from behind. She whirled and found to her chagrin that one of her tutors had caught her.

"I'll take those," he said smugly.

Sourly she handed over the electrobinoculars, furious at not having noticed his approach. Her stealth tutor was still much better than she was. That would change, she vowed. No one was going to be a better servant to her master than she intended to be.

"Now if you're quite done spying on the Emperor's guests," her tutor said dryly, "we'll get on with the scheduled lesson?"

Grudgingly accepting that she wouldn't be solving the puzzle of the prisoner's identity any time soon, Mara Jade trailed her tutor off to the next of her incessant training sessions.

…

The Emperor did not bother to rotate his throne to face the opening doors. He remained where he was, surveying the great holographic map of the galaxy that had been installed behind the throne. His reptilian, hooded eyes lingered thoughtfully on the Vjun system as footsteps approached the throne behind him and came to a halt. Still he did not turn. He was Emperor, and master of the dark side; those who sought an audience with him did so at his convenience. If he chose to make them kneel for hours while he meditated, then they would do it, and treasure the honor.

It was a lesson, he reflected, that he had thought Vader had learned well. Capricious, temperamental, wilful, ambitious—the former Jedi prodigy was all these, but he well knew that Palpatine was the master, and heretofore had behaved accordingly. Yet the presence of the man behind him indicated that his apprentice was a great deal less tame than the Emperor had believed.

Well. It was high time he examined the nature of this deceitfulness in its full detail. Slowly he turned the throne about until he was facing the man who had come. Though it was the first time they had ever met face-to-face, it was impossible to mistake his guest. As with Vader, the full helmet and armor he wore were less a mask than was the face behind them.

"Boba Fett," he acknowledged. "You may rise."

The infamous bounty hunter stood, somehow managing to convey in the action his distaste for ever having had to kneel in the first place. That was to be expected from a man whose millions of clone brothers all bowed to Palpatine on a regular basis, and who prided himself on his relative uniqueness from them. Though proud, Fett was nonetheless an effective tool, and so the Emperor elected to tolerate the idiosyncrasies as long as the bounty hunter held them in check.

"Your Majesty," Fett said brusquely in a voice that smacked of pulverized permacrete.

Palpatine thoughtfully regarded the container that floated alongside the bounty hunter. It was a portable cryogenic unit. Realizing that the unit would not be easy to transfer up the dais stairs, he stood and began making his way down, cane tapping on the beautiful Nubian green marble floor. "I assume you fulfilled my conditions," he said.

Fett inclined his head. "Vader and his men know nothing," he replied.

After deliberation, Fett had decided it would be better to make no mention of the unidentifiable children on Corellia, or of the liberated bonuses. After all, the terms of the contract had been met—the desired merchandise had been delivered, the children in question didn't know who he was or where he had gone, and Vader's men had never caught a whiff of him. Besides that, he had good reason to expect that all four mystery children and the Imperials at the hangar on Corellia were dead. Once he'd reached the cockpit of the _Slave I_, he'd used his stolen military communications suite to tap into NavNet and transmit bogus instructions to the central computer to switch one of the patrolling TIE fighters into autopilot attack mode, re-designating the operation zone coordinates as the target area.

Of course he couldn't fool the central command into more than one pass, because clearly someone was going to notice something a bit fishy about a TIE strafing Imperial troops. And of course, he'd never be able to use that com suite again—which was a real shame, because it was not every day that a professional could get his hands on a military com suite that had been properly configured to interface with NavNet. Only the Navy Division of Communications could configure units, and those configured units were religiously tracked. If by some miracle one was stolen, Central Command would just deconfigure it remotely, and it would be worthless.

All things considered, it was much easier to break somebody out of Vader's personal fortress than it was to steal a configured military com suite without anyone noticing.

Fett shifted a hand on the cryo unit and ordered his thoughts back to the present. He had a good sense that he couldn't afford to be absentminded around the Emperor for even an instant. Besides, the prize for this catch was big enough to make the loss of the com unit negligible.

"And there were no…complications…with the freezing process," Palpatine continued, pausing on the third to last stair.

"None," Fett said.

Palpatine spread his thin lips in amusement. This bounty hunter and his stiff dignity made for an interesting encounter. "Do you not think placing him in hibernation to be somewhat an excessive measure?" he goaded.

"Necessitated by the presence of a combustible tracking chip," explained Fett.

Palpatine straightened a little more, thoughtful. "A slave implant," he murmured. Considering Vader's history, that was most interesting.

"The cryo incapacitated it," Fett said. "It will present no obstacles now."

"You are certain?" Palpatine fixed the bounty hunter's inscrutable mask with a warning stare. Should anything fatal befall his prize before he had had the opportunity to examine it, he would be most displeased.

"I scanned it. It is inactive."

"Excellent," Palpatine murmured, regarding the cryo unit thoughtfully. "You have done well, bounty hunter."

"I always do," Fett returned flatly. "That's why I'm paid as well as I am."

Palpatine cackled with amusement. A pity that the man usually dealt with Vader and not himself, truly a pity; he had quite enjoyed this meeting. Fett had both obvious simplicities and deliciously subtle complexities hovering about him. If not a challenge, the bounty hunter was at least a refreshing change of pace. "Oh, you need have no fears regarding payment, my friend. Rest assured your services are duly appreciated."

Casually, enjoying the rare sensation of doing business directly with a mercenary instead of handing the chore off to some subordinate, Palpatine handed the bounty hunter his credit chip. Fett was sufficiently respectful not to check the validity and amount in front of him. A wise move. The Emperor only appreciated self-assertion in very small quantities.

"Need it be mentioned," Palpatine continued, "that I would be most displeased if any mention of this were to inexplicably find its way to Lord Vader?"

"I don't sell information," Fett responded disdainfully. "I hunt."

"Excellent," the Emperor repeated. "Then our business is finished."

Fett merely nodded and left without comment or ceremony through the side entrance shown him by one of the guards. No superfluous obeisances or pointless flatteries from him. In some ways, Palpatine was strongly reminded of Vader. Perhaps that was why his apprentice had developed such a penchant for hiring this particular bounty hunter.

He found it magnificently ironic to use one of Vader's favorite tools against him.

The door hissed shut, and the Emperor turned after a moment to one of his guards. "Bring the unit to my personal medical ward," he ordered. "I will supervise the boy's resuscitation myself."

…

"Are you _sure _it was _Boba Fett_?" Luke asked for what was probably the umpteen-millionth time.

"Told you, I have," Yoda said, a bit reprovingly. "Certain, I am."

"Sorry, sir," Luke said with a remorseful glance. "I just can't figure out why Boba Fett would want to kidnap Han. I mean, there's not a bounty out on him or anything."

"Know the answer to that question, I do not," said Yoda. "Omniscient, I am not."

"Omni-what?" Luke asked absently, checking the hyperdrive readouts from the pilot's seat. He might only be thirteen, and Yoda might be nine hundred, but there was no question which of them was the better pilot. After the Jedi Master had used the Force to heal him of the two nasty concussions he'd gotten from being thrown around on Corellia, Luke did all of the flying.

"It means all-knowing," Obi-Wan's voice echoed.

"Why didn't you just say that, then—" A light blinked and a chime rang. Luke sat up a little straighter. "Okay, we're coming out of hyperspace right…about…_now_."

The modified Imperial shuttle slipped out of hyperspace, and as soon as the sublight engines had kicked in Luke flipped on the repaired cloaking shield. It was a good thing they had the shield, he reflected—the space ahead of them swarmed with Star Destroyers and commercial traffic. He didn't fancy trying to sneak down in a cargo ship's shadow like Han had.

"I've been to Coruscant before, you know," he said, accelerating toward the planet.

Yoda nodded. "Lived here, I did. Dangerous it is now for a Jedi."

"It sure is," Luke agreed fervently, remembering how he and Han and that guy Wedge had blasted their way out several months ago.

"Stay close to me, you must, youngling," Yoda warned. "Retrieve one child at the expense of another, I will not."

Luke's hands tightened a little on the controls. "Um…what if there's other kids wherever it is we're going? Will you rescue them too?"

"Think there may be other children, do you?"

Luke shrugged, inwardly hoping that Fett hadn't somehow caught up with Lando and his little sisters, but not knowing for certain, and not wanting to spread the news about his family tree just yet. He was pretty sure Leia was safe—Baranne had her, and the worst he would do was put her in a detention cell. Which wasn't any fun, of course, but Luke didn't think anyone would hurt her, and once he'd rescued Han and found his sisters and gotten everybody safely back, he could convince his father to send her back home to her family. "Maybe."

"Plan for that when the time comes, we will," Yoda said.

"What _is_ the plan?"

"Depend upon where Fett is, that will," Yoda told him serenely. "Towards Galactic City, he is flying."

Luke felt something clench in the pit of his stomach. "Isn't that where the Emperor is?" he asked, feeling a bit sick.

"Frighten you, the Emperor does," Yoda observed mildly.

Luke bristled, opened his mouth to deny ever having been afraid of anything in his life, and then stopped, because there was no point lying to a Force user. "My father thinks he might try to kill me if he finds out I'm alive," he said instead.

"The path to the Dark Side, fear is," Yoda said somberly. "Fear leads to anger. Anger leads to hate. Hate leads to suffering."

Luke hesitated before asking, "Is that what happened to my father?"

Yoda nodded his head gravely.

"But my father's not afraid of anything," Luke said, puzzled.

"Appear afraid to young eyes, Vader does not," Yoda told him. "But great fears he has, youngling. Fear of failure, of loss, of change, of lack of control."

Luke sat in silence for several minutes, trying to wrap his mind around the idea that his huge, supremely competent, generally terrifying father might actually be scared to death somewhere beneath all that impervious black armor. "And…he gets angry because he can't escape being afraid?"

"Not cannot," Yoda said severely. "_Will_ not. Choose to cling to these fears, your father does. Seek to destroy them, he does, instead of letting them go. Anger it produces in him, frustration, dread, hatred—the Dark Side are these. See that they will only destroy that which he holds dear, he does not."

"So—he _does_ love me," Luke pointed out defensively.

"Yes, yes," Yoda agreed. "That is why you must go."

Luke stared. "I don't get it."

"The same it was with your mother," Yoda revealed solemnly.

Obi-Wan suddenly shimmered into being, taking over the story. "Luke, your father loved your mother terribly," he explained. "So much that the fear of losing her consumed him. Your father could not accept his inability to protect her. He sought the power to control the future, and thought that the Dark Side would grant him this power."

"But nobody can control the future," Luke pointed out incredulously.

"So your father discovered," Obi-Wan said sadly. "He became so obsessed with seeking power that he forgot why he wanted it in the first place. The Dark Side twisted your father's love into fearful, dangerous jealousy."

"But love's a _good _thing!" Luke said indignantly.

"That's true, Luke. But anything with a great capacity for good also has a great capacity for evil," Obi-Wan explained. "Your father is a prime example."

"But there's still good in him!" Luke exclaimed.

"Your father's love for you is good, Luke," Obi-Wan told him.

"But warp it the Dark Side will," Yoda cut in. "Change, your father will not, until realize his mistake he does. Until then, in grave danger from him you are!"

"You mean, because he loves me," Luke said slowly, "that means…like, if he lost control, he might hurt me trying to keep me safe?"

Yoda nodded. "Consume him his desire for power still does. Consume you also, it may. "

"You mean he'd kill me?" Luke whispered.

"In greater danger, your spirit is," Yoda declared. "Sound training you require, before face the Dark Side you can. Balanced with perspective, your love for your father must be, or overwhelm you it will."

"Like what happened to my father," Luke said somberly.

Yoda nodded, ears twitching upward.

"But I can't leave! I have to save _him_," Luke argued.

"Save him, you cannot!" Yoda said, thumping his stick. "Responsible for his own decisions your father is. Only he can turn himself from the Dark Side. Only he can correct his own mistakes."

"But I can help!" Luke burst out.

"Not if you do not complete your training," Yoda cautioned. "If fall to the Darkness you do, help him you cannot."

Luke fell silent, and turned back to the viewport and controls, not really seeing anything. The whirling emotions and thoughts were almost too much for him. He didn't know what he should do. Leaving his father felt like betrayal—but what if Yoda was right, and that was the only way to help him? And what about his little sisters?

His mind was still a confused morass by the time Luke had sneaked the ship into an empty hangar near Galactic City.

…

Vader was still pacing the front room of his quarters feverishly when Siler finally made a reappearance. "Well?" he demanded thunderously.

Siler set his lips tightly. "A positive paternal match," he announced.

His mind went shockingly still for a moment, just trying to process this new information. "You're certain, Doctor?"

Siler handed him the printout from the genetic test. "Virtually a one hundred percent match, my lord. There's no question."

Vader stared at the splashes of technical information on the sheet. The only bit of it he could understand was the line reading _Likelihood of Paternal Relationship: 99.99867_, but then that was really all he needed to know.

"Congratulations," Siler said softly.

Vader lunged a hand forward, seizing him by the shoulder. "You will not speak of this to anyone," he growled. "_Anyone_."

"Of course, my lord," Siler said with remarkable composure. "I would not impart confidential medical information."

"Good," Vader said, releasing him slowly. He was about to dismiss the man before abruptly remembering the rest of the exam. "Doctor—I assume that she—"

"Is in perfect health, my lord," Siler finished for him. "I'd like to administer a general antibiotic, just in case she picked up a lurker bacterium in Coronet, but there are no problems whatsoever. She is, of course, Force-sensitive." He handed Vader another sheet of flimsy.

Had he had any eyebrows, they would have jumped two inches towards his hairline at the midi-chlorian statistics. Of course, a child of his could hardly help being a powerful Force-sensitive—but he had never seen any medical evaluations for Luke or the twins—

He was going to have to stop thinking of the younger two as "the twins." There were _two_ sets of twins now. He had gone hunting for his three missing children and had instead found one he hadn't even known existed. Another daughter.

Another child hidden from him by Kenobi.

And _Organa_—! The gall of _that man_, the sheer unbelievable _gall_—!

The searing, white-hot rage that suddenly ignited in every nerve ending came within a hair's breadth of killing the innocent Siler, simply because the man happened to be the closest possible breathing target. The medic backed up a step as Vader's fist clenched and mysterious creases appeared in the durasteel bulkheads. Only by a supreme exertion of willpower was the dark lord able to remind himself that he needed his medic alive, and that there were plenty of other, less critical persons aboard the destroyer on whom he could vent his wrath.

"Inform the bridge," Vader said through clenched teeth, "that I am not to be disturbed for any reason."

Siler nodded silently and made a rapid retreat.

…

It was really cold. Whatever _it_ was. And whatever _cold_ was. He couldn't quite think of what the word meant, nor was he even sure what a word was. He just knew on some subconscious level that it was the right way to describe the searing sensation that had enveloped him for what felt like forever. It was the only thing he could think at all—it was like his mind had jammed a gear and got stuck in place. There wasn't anything in the world—wasn't even a world—just that unbearable sharpness. The idea of moving didn't occur to him, but it wouldn't have mattered if it had, because there wasn't anywhere to move.

It wasn't as though his vision had gone black. It just didn't exist anymore. There wasn't any black, or any white, or any anything. Nothing was there to be smelled or heard or felt, except for the cold that had burrowed all the way through him and out the other side. He felt sure he had been suffocating for years. It was as though he had been suspended in between one breath and the next; yet nothing burned or complained of the absence of oxygen. He was just sort of there waiting until he could—do something.

It wasn't that he was patient, but he wasn't impatient either. Frantic, that was what he was. He didn't know why. He just was, and as far as he could tell he always had been. He also knew that he was trying to think of a way out. Where _out_ was, and why he felt it was so important to get there, he couldn't say, but he wasn't curious. He could only have been curious if he could think something new, and he couldn't, because his brain cells had all stopped right where they were, freezing him in the grip of whatever sensation he had last experienced.

He was just there, waiting, being one thing and one thought, until there was a flicker.

Something—something—what was that? Something was happening—

And then, all of a sudden, there was a new impression. It was really cold—_and it really hurt_.

Before the cold hadn't hurt—there hadn't been an active brain to process any sensation of pain. But now, his consciousness had begun to flicker awake, and he realized how horribly, hellishly _cold_ he was. He wasn't just _numb_—he could feel the icy cold in the very marrow of his bones, stabbing through his skull and brain and heart.

A moment later, he felt as though someone had dumped him in the middle of an explosion. Heat exploded around him, just as penetrating as the cold was, and the abrupt shift from icy immobility to drenching sweat was no relief at all. Sensations of every sort bombarded him—the scent of antiseptic, a faint draft, his violent shivering, hums and buzzes and brisk voices, hands lifting him up and setting him back down on something—where was he, _who_ was he—what was all this—

Random snippets of memory were flying in circles around his brain, mad, crazed, no order to them, names and faces whirling around sliced apart from each other, a ship, a blond kid, a couple of girls, a big black mask, soft hair in his fingers, bursts of red light and fear, circles of blue and a busted hyperdrive, and he didn't know what any of them were or what they had to do with each other or him—

_Han_, the thought suddenly occurred to him. _I'm Han Solo_.

And with a click, everything rushed back into place.

_Somebody crawling in the air ducts—Luke—the twerplings—in a box—stormtrooper—no helmet—gonna freeze me alive!_

"Stop!" Han yelled aloud desperately, and then—"Kreth him!"—and finally as he remembered the slave implant—"I'm alive!"

"Indeed you are," a thin, authoritative voice said from somewhere to his left. Han swung around to see who it was—or tried to. Two details of the situation gave him pause—firstly, he had been strapped down to a bed, and secondly he couldn't see a krething thing.

"I can't see!" he howled frantically.

"Yes," the voice mused, "yes. My medic informs me that blindness is a common side effect of hibernation sickness. However, you were not in cryostasis for more than a week. Your eyesight should return momentarily."

That voice seemed eerily familiar. And it sent a chill into his bones that had nothing to do with having recently been in a freeze coma. "Who the nine hells are you?" Han stammered, trying to peer through the impenetrable blackness that surrounded him.

"Ah, my young friend, you do not recognize me," the voice said sadly. "We should have been so very close by now."

"You don't work for Jabba, do you?" Han had suddenly remembered the incident of the stolen Sienar hyperdrive, when a gang of Jabba's mercenaries had tried to gun them all down on Nar Shaddaa thanks to Lando. Might Jabba have found out who he was after all these months and put a price on his head?

The voice gave a reedy cackle. "I work for no one, my young friend."

Han felt his stomach inexplicably drop even further out of place. He had a _real _bad feeling about this. Desperately he squinted in the direction of the voice. The blackness was lightening, turning into a gray blurriness, but he still couldn't make anything out.

"Where am I?" he swallowed, fingers working the soft edge of the mattress beneath him in an effort to remain collected.

"In my residence," the voice responded. "This is my personal medical ward. I regret that it was necessary to place you in cryostasis, but it seems my emissary had no alternative for removing you safely from Vjun."

Han suddenly wondered frantically what had happened to Sara and Sandra. The last thing he remembered was the kidnapper shooting them full of stun bolts, before he'd been stunned himself. He had no idea where they might have gone, what might have been done with them. Maybe this guy knew where they were, but maybe not, and Han knew from long experience that he shouldn't give any information away unless he absolutely had to.

"Vader's not gonna be happy," he muttered instead. Somehow, he was sure Luke's great big hulk of a dad was going to blame _him_ for losing the twins.

"Rest assured, young one, that your father will have other concerns very shortly," said the voice threateningly.

"My what will what?" Han yelped.

"Your father will have other concerns," the voice repeated flatly.

"You mean Vader?" Han choked out. "He's not my father!" He began blinking even more furiously—he could just distinguish a black fuzzy blob hovering in the grayness over to his right.

"Come, come, there is no need for pretenses," said the voice. "I am quite well aware of the truth. You have nothing to fear from me, young Skywalker."

"Sky—" Han's voice suddenly cut off as it dawned on him.

The kidnapper had mistaken _him_ for _Luke_.

It was easy to see why—who would suspect that Vader would have more than one teenager living with him? _He _sure as the nine hells wouldn't. But then…that meant Luke must still be safe!

Han decided to play along with the misconception as long as he could. "What do you want?" he said bravely.

"What do I want," the voice echoed. Han could see the roughly outlined blob lean a little further over him. "I think perhaps the question to be answered is—what do _you_ want, young Skywalker?"

Han stayed stubbornly silent.

"Ah," the voice said regretfully. "I forget that you have no cause to trust me. You have something of your dear mother in you, you see, her hair, brown eyes. She trusted me implicitly, you know. As did your father once." The blob leaned back. "I am afraid that experience has made him…somewhat paranoid."

"Tell me about it," Han muttered in fervent agreement, squinting fiercely at the blob. It was getting a little more distinct—he could see a pale smear in the middle now that was probably a face.

"Your eyesight is improving?" the voice asked solicitously.

Han thought about claiming he could see perfectly, then decided that anybody Vader had ever trusted wasn't somebody he wanted to mess around with. "Getting there."

"Excellent," said the voice. A taller white blob suddenly ballooned alongside the black one and Han heard whispered voices before it left as quickly as it had come.

"My medic advises that you close your eyes for a few minutes," said the voice.

"Don't want me seeing you, huh?" Han demanded fiercely.

The voice cackled again. "Your father's magnificent temper."

Bristling at the suggestion that he and Vader had anything in common, Han decided to prove just how much more cooperative a person he was by going ahead and closing his eyes as ordered. The voice was quiet for a while, during which he sneakily tested the straps pinning him to the bed.

"Hey," he finally said with hard-mustered cheer, "being as I'm your young friend and all, how about letting me up?"

"Nothing would please me more," said the voice. "But it is for your own benefit."

"Yeah, you sure seem real interested in my benefit," Han retorted. "Let's get this out of the way now. I don't like it, pal. And I probably don't like you either."

"Your father's total lack of subtlety as well," muttered the voice with chagrin.

Han bristled again. "Anything else about me that's just like Old Wheezy?" he said indignantly.

The voice cackled more loudly. "I daresay I may be doing Lord Vader a favor in taking you off his hands," said the stranger, and still Han couldn't recall where he'd heard this voice before. "Your father seems to have found it difficult to teach you proper respect. Do not worry, young Skywalker, I will correct that deficiency—and many more."

Han set his jaw stubbornly. "Listen, pal, nobody's teaching me anything unless I say so," he barked. "An' if you think I'm gonna let _you_ teach me, you're pretty mistaken."

"Oh no, my young friend," said the voice. "It is you who are mistaken…about a great many things."

Han half wanted to laugh in the guy's face and tell him his real name then and there, if just to prove which one of them was the more mistaken, but he decided he'd better play that card real close to the chest. "How about you quit fooling around and tell me who you are already?" he snapped instead.

"I think perhaps if you were to open your eyes, you would find your question answered for you," the voice said.

Han waited a suspicious second before slowly twitching his eyelids open. He blinked a flood of tears away hard at the sudden flood of light. After a few seconds he was relieved to find that his eyesight was back to normal. Succumbing to his deathly curiosity, he turned his head back to the right…

A hideously wrinkled face peered back at him from beneath a voluminous black hood, set with glinting, reptilian yellow eyes, barely recognizable as human. Thin, tissue-paper lips were stretched in a leering grin, deteriorating teeth bared like a nexu.

Han would have had to hail from another galaxy not to know who that guy was.

"Holy krethin' Sith," he breathed.

The Emperor of the whole blasted galaxy was standing over him.

As the horrible cackling laughter rushed over him again, Han devoutly wished he could jump back into the cryo chamber.


	44. Elimination Round

A/N: Well! It only took me half past forever, and I really do apologize for that, but here—at long last—I have an update for you all! There is some other good news. I've finally defeated my writer's block and have actually managed to develop an outline for the remainder of the story which satisfies me. The only bad news is that it's three pages long single space, which translates to a whole lot more writing for me—maybe up to another hundred pages, although I hope not quite that bad. This chapter was probably the easiest part of the outline; a lot of the rest will be complicated and difficult to coordinate, so it's going to take me awhile to iron things out enough to post more chapters. But in the meantime, here's my way of saying thank you for being patient with me!

Also, for those of you who are wanting to know why the Emperor doesn't sense that Han isn't Force-sensitive, I have not forgotten that outstanding issue; it will be addressed, but I might not get to it for another chapter or two. In the meantime, hope you enjoy!

* * *

Coruscant was just as big and twice as intimidating as Luke remembered. Thanks to the cloaking shield, a lot of caution, and grudgingly accepted advice from Master Yoda, he had managed to land the modified shuttle in an abandoned factory within sight of the towering starscrapers of Imperial City. Between the pinnacles of Imperial Palace and their factory stretched a vast, dilapidated field of industrial infrastructure. No craft traversed the hoverlanes overhead except for the occasional patrol droid.

"Safe, the ship will be," Yoda declared as they disembarked. "Walk to Imperial City, we must. Cautious, our approach must be, if beneath the Emperor's notice we are to remain."

Luke nodded somberly and followed the Jedi Master out of the ship. They worked their way downward, taking a number of detours to avoid damaged walkways or dysfunctional lifts. The echoes of his solitary footfalls on the industrial mesh flooring, lumbering ponderously through cavernous chambers and assembly rooms, made Luke feel smaller than Master Yoda. It seemed forever that they were walking, and they still hadn't even left the first factory building. Luke was beginning to think that as long as it would take them to walk to Imperial City, he could probably finish Jedi training on the way—when Yoda led him through a particularly obscure hatchway and revealed a long, sparsely lit tunnel with conveyor belts rushing both directions down the center.

"A cargo transport system, this is," Yoda announced gleefully. "Used to move factory products to the buildings in Galactic City, it once was." He performed a surprisingly agile hop up onto the rushing belt; startled, Luke scrambled to follow suit.

At first Luke thought they might be able to make even better time by walking on the top of the belt as it raced along, but he soon discovered this would not be wise. The belt was not in very good condition. It was pocked with threadbare patches and punched with holes, and the ominous rattle by itself would have been enough to convince Luke to just sit down. Had any eyes been there to see they might have thought it an odd sight, the young boy and wizened wizard sitting side by side, cross-legged beneath the scraggly blink of dying glowpanels, staring ahead while the conveyor belt winged them along towards the lion's den.

* * *

He got plenty of wary looks on his way out of Imperial Palace. That was standard when he was in the armor. Probably most of these political toadies were afraid he was on a contract for their heads. If he played his cards right he could probably wheedle half a million credits out of them on his way out without even trying. He didn't bother. If he didn't need the money—and after this delivery he wouldn't need any for quite some time—he could afford to be selective. Only pick the jobs that were a real challenge. There wasn't anything of the kind here on Coruscant; all the interesting jobs were waiting for him in the backwaters and underbellies of the Outer Rim. The sooner he got out of this cesspool of purported civilization the happier he'd be.

His strides quickened, and he made short work of the awesomely long corridors of Imperial Palace on his route back to the rear lower-level landing pad where he'd left his ship. He turned a final corner into the right hallway and started towards the bay door at the far end. Behind him, at a supply entrance to the building that squatted on the opposite end of the corridor, the stormtrooper on duty was arguing with somebody trying to gain admittance.

He ignored the shouting until, about halfway down the corridor to the bay, he realized that the voice sounded familiar. He spun around.

It was the information broker from Coronet. And he was carrying the two bonuses.

He reached up and switched all the helmet's sensor systems online. Apparently, he still had a few loose ends to wrap up.

Special case. No trail.

The bounty hunter started back down the hallway.

* * *

Heretofore, Lando Calrissian had done his best not to aggravate Imperial might any more than he absolutely had to. Simple rule of self-preservation, as any black marketer could tell you. But given enough time, this stormtrooper might just singlehandedly convince him to join the blasted Rebellion.

"You are not authorized for admittance at this access point," the stormtrooper barked for what had to be the tenth time in two minutes. Lando was beginning to suspect that, with the exception of _Present your authorization for admittance at this access point_, the man didn't actually know any Basic.

He had definitely picked the wrong gate to try. All things considered, Lando had thought he'd probably have better luck trying to weasel his way in one of the low-level gates and work his way up until he ran into somebody who worked for somebody who was friends with somebody who could bribe somebody to get these two safely to the Emperor, who could give 'em back to Vader, and hopefully that way everybody would still be alive when this krething mess was over. Except for Han Solo, because Lando was personally going to kill him for the sake of the galactic good.

Irritably, he shifted the weight of Sara on one hip and Sandra on the other. Sandra was asleep, and Sara had flat out refused to walk. "Look, fine, have it your way. Can you just tell me what access point I _can_ get past?"

"You are not authorized for admittance at this access point," the stormtrooper repeated.

"I get it, shavit! Take me in with a guard escort or something! Arrest me! I don't care how the hells you do it, whatever makes you happy, all I'm telling you is that I gotta get these kids in to see the—"

He broke off, because the obstinate stormtrooper had shifted slightly, and Lando could see somebody rushing towards him from further down the corridor. That somebody, if the Mandalorian armor was anything to go by, looked a damn lot like Boba Fett. Immediately his memory flashed back to the cantina in Coronet, where that rogue clone had forced him to feed information about Luke and had paid him to rustle up a portable cryo chamber.

Two and two suddenly snapped together in Calrissian's brain.

"Oh _hells_ no," he breathed—and he spun around and ran for all their lives, just barely in time to dodge the blaster bolt that nearly clipped his heels.

* * *

The opening blaster bolt, ideally, would have nailed the fleeing information broker in the back—killing him on the spot with any luck—and Fett could have picked off the bonuses with two easy shots. There wasn't any question of trying to recapture and hand them in now; Palpatine would only infer that he hadn't done his job, hadn't tied up all the loose ends, and that would not lead to an optimal outcome. The only acceptable course of action was to eliminate all three targets as quickly as possible.

Unfortunately, Fett misjudged. The information broker marked him for a threat faster than he'd anticipated and tore off, leaving the bounty hunter to watch in frustration as his well-aimed blaster bolt chewed up a divot of pavement.

The stormtrooper on duty whirled, blaster primed, but Fett had already flicked his weapon to stun. The soldier was unconscious before he could decide to pull the trigger. Fett leaped over his still-collapsing form and sprinted through the exit just in time to see the information broker's cape flagging behind him down the walkway on the far side of the landing platform. He fired again; but the shots went high as his quarry barreled out of sight down a descending ramp.

Fett indulged himself in a particularly satisfying curse in Mando'a and dashed across the platform, cursing the impeding weight of his armor.

* * *

Lando didn't have time to reflect on his incredible luck at evading Fett's opening salvos. He was too busy trying not to drop Vader's baby girls as he fled full throttle down the tech access ramps that ran up and down to the landing platforms at each level of Imperial Palace. The twins were screeching, of course, but he was sure the roar of nearby industrial traffic and the occasional hair-scorching blaster bolt from Fett rendered any effort at secrecy pointless, so he didn't bother with trying to shut them up. At Level 55, he managed to gain a little ground on Fett by sprinting across the platform to a cargo turbolift tube on the far side. The bounty hunter peppered the doors with fire, and a bolt singed the ends off his moustache, but by some miracle the hatch closed in time and whisked them all the way down to Level 12.

Level 12, apparently, was where technology had died. Instead of moving access ramps, they had to sprint down a rackety scaffold-style durasteel staircase. Lando thundered down one flight and abandoned it at the next landing, where a bridge arched away towards the foundations of an adjacent tower. He raced across into the other building and sealed the decrepit doors behind him. Wouldn't hold Fett long but at least it'd maybe buy him an extra second.

He'd intended to head back up towards the surface via one of the turbolift shafts in this building. The further down you went on Coruscant, the more vicious and dilapidated and lawless the planet became. Up at the top there were law enforcement officers and stormtrooper patrols he could call for help; down at the bottom, Fett could do whatever the hells he wanted to them with impunity. Unfortunately, the turbolifts were all out of order except for one downward-bound cargo lift. Lando swore and boarded the thing, then swore again as he glimpsed Fett rounding the corner just before the doors sealed.

Leaning against the wall of the lift cabin, Lando stared at the ceiling trying to catch his breath and ignore the deafening wails of the frightened toddlers. Why the nine hells was he bothering? It was only a matter of time before Fett caught them, and then it was all over but the funeral.

_Shavit, Solo, if you're waiting for me in the afterlife, I'm gonna kill you again._

* * *

They'd been riding the conveyor belt for about an hour now. Luke had given up sitting cross-legged and was now stretched out on his stomach with his chin in his elbows, dully counting the lights as they flashed by overhead. Since Yoda was taking the opportunity to meditate, he had no better ways to pass the time. He was somewhere in the neighborhood of four thousand when something sharp and afraid spiked in the Force and yanked on his mind with a vengeance.

He jerked to his hands and knees with a startled yelp. That was Sara and Sandra!

Before he could say anything to Yoda, the Jedi Master's bulbous eyes flicked open. "Our stop, this is," he announced, and the next second he had made a flying leap off the conveyor belt, towing a doubly-startled Luke behind him with a deft stroke of the Force. Miraculously, he landed on his feet regardless, arms windmilling furiously until he rediscovered his balance. Yoda snickered and plodded off beneath the wooshing, rattling conveyor belts towards the entrance of a corridor adjoining the supply transport tunnel.

Luke dashed after him. "Master Yoda! My si—" he remembered only barely in time that he hadn't breathed a word about the twins to Yoda "—my friends are in trouble!"

"Your younger sisters, I think you mean," Yoda corrected him mildly, brandishing his walking stick.

Luke gaped. "How—how did you—"

"Strong am I with the Force," the Jedi Master declared. "But need the Force to know that, I do not." He snorted disdainfully. "Recognize a Skywalker when I sense one, I do!"

Luke winced. "You—um—you felt that too? Doesn't that mean that the Emperor—"

"Distracted, the Emperor is," Yoda said. "Why I cannot tell, but alerted to our presences, he is not. But quickly we must act to hide your sisters from him."

"Then we're going to go get them?" Luke panted breathlessly, weaving around the tangled support girders that held the conveyor belt frames.

"Rescue them we will," Yoda affirmed, hobbling down the side of the new corridor.

* * *

Fett, unfortunately for Lando, had discovered a faster way down than waiting for the car to come back up to him. Forcing open the doors of the neighboring turbolift shaft, he blasted down with his jetpack. Which explained why, when Lando sprinted out of the cargo lift clutching the kids, the bounty hunter was only ten seconds behind him. He dodged around the nearest corner as blaster fire shredded the permacrete floor behind him—

—skidded around another corner—

—and tripped over a small green alien with a cane.

Lando twisted backwards and tumbled to the floor with a yell. Sandra soared out of his arms and collided with a blond-haired boy, while Sara came down with a thump on his ribcage and hammered the air out of his lungs. He wheezed painfully as she clambered up, tiny feet punching into his gut, and cheered, "Das Luke!"

"Lando?" a familiar young voice inquired.

Calrissian blinked and sat up on his elbows. Sure enough, Luke the Jedi kid was staring back at him. "How the krething Sith did you get here?" he blurted.

"We were following Boba—"

"_Fett!" _Lando screeched, as an airborne armored juggernaut blasted around the corner. Blaster bolts spurted towards them, on a direct collision course with the whites of his eyes—

There were a spitting _snap-hiss_, and a shaft of green light sprang out of the little green alien's hand to bat the bolts aside into the walls.

* * *

Fett slammed the reverse thruster switch to neutralize his acceleration and switched off his jetpack, dropping onto the floor with a thud. _"Jedi_," he snarled. The hate was accompanied with a healthy dose of fear, however, because unless he was seriously mistaken the diminutive opponent facing him was none other than the elusive Master Yoda.

"Das da bad man, Luke!" a young female voice wailed further back. Fett glanced over Yoda's head in time to see the bonuses scramble behind the legs of a blond teenage boy—who was now brandishing a blue lightsaber of his own. It was the kid who'd been trying to track him down on Corellia—the one he'd assumed dead in the attack in the alleyway behind Hangar 1138.

_Holy Hutt-breath_, Fett marveled, _this kid is tough_.

Immediately he ordered the blond youngster out of his thoughts. Only a fool allowed himself to be distracted when facing a Jedi Master in battle.

"Master Yoda," he growled in his gravelly voice instead.

"Young Fett," the ancient little wizard returned sternly. "No quarrel with you have I. Taken a boy from Bast Castle you have. Where is he?"

Fett barked a laugh, edging back a step to perfect his stance. "What does a Jedi Master want with Vader's son?"

"It's none of your business why I'm here," snapped the blond boy from behind his lightsaber.

Fett's helmet whipped up as his stomach secretly plunged. With fresh, horrified eyes he examined the younger boy, hoping for some sign that he'd misunderstood what the kid had just said. No such luck.

He'd just made the worst—and probably most fatal—mistake of his career. He'd delivered the wrong boy. Sooner or later, the Emperor would figure it out, and conclude that Fett had deliberately swindled him out of the money and played him for a fool. As good as a death sentence—unless, by some ridiculous chance, he could set the matter straight within the hour.

"Damn," he said mildly, "I knew I shouldn't have taken this job."

Then he opened fire with the flamethrower.

* * *

Luke yelped as gushing sheet of flame erupted, threatening to engulf Master Yoda—but the Jedi Master nipped aside with an instant to spare and launched himself into a spectacular flip, spinning over the bounty hunter's head and taking a swing as he came down. Fett ducked just in time and the green blade spat sparks as it chewed through jetpack equipment. He tumbled to the side and came up on his feet, firing coolly with both blasters. Lando dove against the side of the corridor with a screech as several of the shots ricocheted off Yoda's whipping green blade and soared past Fett towards them. A handful of those then bounced away from Luke's hasty defensive pattern and darted back once more, building a veritable hail of criss-cross laser fire.

It wouldn't have taken long for all of them to be hit in such a mayhem, but Yoda performed another gravity-mocking set of acrobatics and came down between Fett and his quarry once again. An expert slash chopped off the muzzle of the flamethrower, which Fett barely had time to hurl away before Yoda was upon him, driving him down the corridor with a display of offensive technique that would have pressed even a master of lightsaber defense—let alone a Force-blind bounty hunter. The only way Fett could counter the attack was to retreat furiously and hold it off with as much firepower as he could generate.

With what brain cells he could spare, Fett reflected that his chances of defeating the Jedi and capturing Vader's brat were looking dimmer by the instant. The longer he remained locked in combat with the detested Jedi, the greater the distance the kids would be able to escape. There was nothing for it but to try to get back around the Jedi and sprint away, try to catch his quarry. Perhaps hold them hostage?

By now the combatants had retreated as far back as the bank of cargo lifts. Fett made a few quick moves, trying to force the Jedi back against the gaping hole in the wall where he'd blown out the doors of one of the lifts when he'd flown down the tube to catch the information broker. The wizened little troll was much too wily for such maneuvers, unfortunately—with another impossible contortion he flipped and bounced off the wall, cannonballing across the corridor. Before Fett even knew it was happening the Jedi had exploded off the middle of the far wall, revolving midair, and collided with both tri-clawed feet against his chest.

Completely taken off balance, the bounty hunter flew backwards with a howl—directly through the gaping entrance to the bottomless turbolift shaft. Durasteel slammed against his back, crunching the remnants of his jetpack and blasting the air from his lungs. Extensive training was the only thing that enabled him to ignore the shock and lunge for the laser-warped edges of the destroyed shaft doors.

It did him no good. He wasn't fast enough. His gloves grazed the smooth metal surface of the shaft, about five centimeters below the opening, for a split second. Then all he could do was flail uselessly as the patch of light raced away upward, and he plummeted downward through the pitch blackness, en route to a final rendezvous with the invisible bottom of the shaft.

* * *

Luke had wanted to run after Yoda and help him tackle the bounty hunter, but was luckily deterred by the fact that one of the ricocheting laser blasts had struck Lando in the leg. As soon as the two combatants had vanished out of sight around the corner Luke scurried across to check on him, closely tailed by the twins.

"Kwishy hurt!" Sandra wailed.

"Bad man hurt Kwishy!"

"The name is Cal_ris_sian," Lando growled through gritted teeth, forcing himself back up against the wall. Luke flicked on his pocket penlight so as to see the wound better.

"Well," he said optimistically, "it could be worse."

"I'm stuck in the underbelly of Coruscant babysitting Darth Vader's kids with a busted leg," Lando snarled. "How the kreth does it get any worse than this?"

"At least you still _have_ a leg," Luke pointed out. "Hold still, I'm gonna tie it up."

Lando settled back with a grimace, then howled afresh as Luke tore the cape from his shoulders and ripped it into strips. From all appearances he was far more outraged by the damage to his wardrobe than to his person. "Shavit, kid, that was my favorite cape!"

Luke ignored him as he started knotting the strips into a makeshift bandage. Sandra wriggled up against Lando and announced, in the most serious of tones, that she would sing him a song that would "make the ouchie go bye-bye." Before he could object Sara had dropped onto his lap with a thump.

"How is you now, Kwishy?" she inquired somberly.

"Great," he said tightly. "Just perfect."

She started pretending to check his temperature and heart rate, while her sister swung his hand back and forth in time with a thin, warbling, and decidedly off-key song about Doctor Droid and Mr. Band-Aid.

"I see your dad's already training them in torture techniques," Lando told Luke, who glared at him and cinched the knot on the makeshift bandage especially tight.

"That's the best I can do right now," he said. "There's more supplies on our ship."

"If we can _get_ to your ship," Lando retorted. "I hope that Jedi of yours can take Fett, cause otherwise he's going to blast us all to the ninth hell."

Luke glanced down the corridor. "I don't hear anything anymore."

Lando listened carefully, but could hear even the faintest echo of a blaster shot. "Either somebody won or they've moved too far away."

"Someone's coming," Luke hissed a second later. He switched off the penlight and they all cowered in the shadows as footsteps became definitely audible. Then a tiny triangle-eared shadow flickered around one bend, and everybody relaxed seconds before Yoda hobbled back into view.

"Yous get da bad man?" Sara piped up.

"Down the turbolift shaft, the bounty hunter fell," Yoda announced solemnly. "Sense him I do not."

"So that means he's dead, I hope," Lando grunted.

"Whether dead or unconscious, I do not know," Yoda answered. "But no further threat to us is he."

Luke sat back with a sigh of relief. "Now what?"

"Removed from danger, the little ones must be," Yoda declared. "And further medical attention Calrissian requires. Luke, guide Calrissian and your sisters back to the ship, you must. To the Imperial Palace I will go, and rescue young Han."

Luke did not appear happy with this arrangement—but one of them would have to show Lando and the twins where the ship was, and it only made sense that the better-trained Jedi ought to be the one to continue ahead into the danger of the Emperor's stronghold.

"Hold on one second," Lando blurted. "Han's been kidnapped and taken to Imperial Palace? _Why_?"

Luke started to retort that he didn't know why anyone would want to kidnap Han, then paused upon realizing that he finally knew what the answer to that question was. "Boba Fett thought Han was me!" he yelped, spinning back to Yoda.

Yoda nodded grimly. "Agree, I do. In grave danger is young Han. Rescued, he must be, before the Emperor has time to discover his mistake."

* * *

Mara had more or less forgotten about the mysterious arrival of Boba Fett and the prisoner in the capsule. Her tutor had run her ragged with hand-to-hand combat exercises, and she barely had the mental energy to breathe now, let alone grouse about the loss of her electrobinoculars or wonder as to the identity of the prisoner. By the time the tutor announced that she could have a few hours of rest before they started on tonight's stealth practice session, she was too grateful for the reprieve to take interest anything but a nice long nap.

Had she been her usual determined and inquisitive self, she might have circled back around and followed her tutor stealthily to his office in hopes of a chance to pilfer back her confiscated binoculars. Had she done so, she would have been extremely fascinated to see him lock the doors, take out her electrobinoculars and view the recordings, and finally retrieve a small compact com unit and computer from a loose ceiling panel. She would have been riveted to observe from the commands he typed into the computer that he was preparing to steal Naval Holonet bandwidth in order to send a secret interstellar message. She would have been gobsmacked to note that he was sending it Encryption Level Three, text only, with the source rotated through all of Coruscant's Holonet transmission stations so as to avoid the possibility of anyone tracing the origin.

And she would have been incited to a cyclone of curiosity, wondering who "RedEye" was and why her tutor was sending him secret messages on secret equipment.

* * *

tbc...


	45. A Question of Intelligence

A/N: I'd apologize for taking a long time to update, but 1) compared to last time, this was fast as lightning, and 2) I've done it so much that none of you would believe me anyway. So I shall simply point out that this chapter is a fair bit longer than most of the ones I've been posting. What's more, four characters whom several of you have been missing are back in view, not to mention one more who hasn't made an appearance in a great many chapters. Enjoy and tell me what you think, guys! This may be the last chapter for awhile, as I'll be heading back to college in a week and demands on my time are going to be greater this semester, while Internet access will be more limited. I will, however, keep writing and posting as I'm able.

* * *

Leia had attempted to take a nap on the cot (which represented the little room's only furnishing) but found that her mind was far too restless. It was horribly frustrating, and she didn't even know where most of the strange thoughts were coming from. Vader kept stalking back and forth across her mental stage, alternately enraged and distant, and so did Luke. Weird imagined images kept flitting around, mostly of Luke somewhere in this room—asleep on the cot, pacing back and forth in front of the door, or hunkered in a shivering heap on the floor with arms wrapped around his pillow for dear life. The last idea might have seemed bizarre and random had she not felt like doing the same thing.

She didn't, obviously. She was a princess and she had to be strong. Angrily she dashed an infant tear out of the corner of her eye and snapped her spine straight.

She was only just in the nick of time. The door glided open without notice, admitting the great hulking form of her captor and whispering shut behind him. Vader seemed twice as big in such a closet of a cabin. The rasp of the respirator drowned out the frightened thump of her heart, which was a bit of a comfort. She could control the rest of herself to make sure he didn't know how scared she really was.

She stood up, and got her knees to steady by imagining Vader's cape being caught in the sliding door. "I demand that you return me to my parents," she announced firmly.

He didn't answer. Only stood there. Watching her. Her words seemed to wash right over the armor without making contact.

Determined not to be unnerved, she added, "You have no right to keep me under confinement. I'm a citizen of Alderaan!"

Slowly, he stepped forward and took her chin in his huge hand, tilting her head upward and examining her face, just the way he had once in the garden when neither of them could sleep. "You shouldn't be," he said distantly. His grip tightened. "You shouldn't be," he repeated more fiercely.

Her temper flared and ate up her fear. "I wouldn't _ever_ want to be anything else!" she snapped back, full of patriotic fervor.

"You will soon have to adjust to the idea," Vader said grimly.

She jerked backward furiously, pushing his hand away from her. "You can take me away from my family and you can keep me locked up and you can even try brainwashing me for all I care, but _I _know the truth and I won't let you take it away!"

"You know nothing about the truth," Vader snapped—he sounded bitter.

Cold, calculating, and suicidally rash, Leia crossed her arms and turned her back on him.

The next thing she knew she had been seized by the shoulders and whipped back around to face him again with a single, hard shake. He was saying something, something enraged, but an icy anger stormed up inside her and she pushed away and poured all the hate she could muster into a despising glare. It probably wasn't a smart thing to do but she was so angry she couldn't think straight—she just wanted, desperately, to make that horrid man as frightened and as desperate and as trapped and as anxious and as little as he had made her, even though she could never logically hope to intimidate a Sith Lord.

In defiance of all reasonable expectation, Vader cut off mid-diatribe and jerked back a step. For another moment he stared at her—then, without another word, he stalked out of the cabin and she heard the door lock behind him.

The tightness and knotted, helpless frustration bled out. She dropped down on the cot and sobbed.

* * *

Captain Firmus Piett had been debating for the better part of an hour whether or not he should make a quick detour to the shipboard chapel and offer up a fervent prayer to whatever deities there might be for the safety of Fifth Fleet's newest admiral. Normally the captain abstained from such activities, but at present, he was buying whatever insurance was on the market. Admiral Thrawn was by far the best admiral he had served under since the establishment of the Empire, and the thought of losing him to Darth Vader's temper was cause for nightmares. He hadn't feared that Thrawn would incur the Sith's wrath before—the admiral was so superior to all his predecessors—but this latest maneuver could easily finish him.

The captain had tried explaining as much to the admiral. But he could not seem to make it clear to Thrawn that requesting the dark lord's presence at a clandestine meeting would be risky under any circumstances—let alone doing so at a time when the Sith lord had expressly commanded that he not be disturbed for anything short of an extragalactic invasion. And _if_ one was going to do such a thing despite all wisdom, one _certainly_ shouldn't insist that Vader come to _them_ for this meeting.

Admiral Thrawn had politely listened to every one of the captain's objections, and then proceeded to disregard each. And now he'd further requested that Piett be present for this meeting as well. The captain had seriously considered jumping ship instead, but that would be the coward's way out. He would go, and pray that Vader would spare him when he arrived to rid himself of his presumptuous admiral. To ask that Vader would spare the _admiral_ was to demand miracles.

Swallowing, Captain Piett pressed the com button at the entrance to the admiral's quarters. The door hissed open immediately in response to his name, and he entered.

Admiral Thrawn was standing in front of one of his holographic artwork projectors, as usual. He welcomed Piett with an expansive gesture and a glint in his red eyes. "I see you have managed to overcome your reservations, Captain."

"Not precisely, sir," Piett said. Understatement was a skill he'd mastered rapidly aboard the _Executor_.

"Yet here you are, half an hour early." The admiral turned calmly back to regard the reproduction of a rather primitive-looking pendant. Piett studied it. It looked as though it had been hand-carved. The intricate, bold design seemed nice enough to the captain.

"Very nice, sir," he said aloud.

"It's not without some quality," the admiral agreed. "A handmade pendant carved from a japor snippet."

"A famous artist, sir?"

"One might call him that," mused the admiral. "One might indeed call him that. Of course, Captain, we are all of us artists."

Piett's mind flickered to the absurd stick drawings he'd produced in his younger years before realizing how utterly unsuited he was to any artistic endeavors. "I rather doubt that, sir," he responded mildly.

Thrawn turned his piercing red stare more firmly onto the captain. "Perhaps not in the conventional sense, Captain," he said, "but no living thing can help expressing itself through some manner of symbolism. Know a being's art, and you will know the being."

"And what does that pendant tell you, sir?" Piett enquired doubtfully.

The admiral's red eyes lit up and he began circling the projection—like an Academy lecturer, only more enthusiastic. "This," Thrawn began, "is the work of a blunt, bold person. Someone who prefers to confront things directly. A being of firm standards and conflicting passions. Clearly a human male. A person of concurrent arrogance and insecurity, capable of both violence and tenderness…"

Piett listened, at a loss as to how his commanding officer could possibly discern so much from a chiseled chip of stone, and doubtful that he could be right.

"Sir," he ventured at length, "I fail to see what any of this has to do with the reason we're here."

"Everything, Captain," Thrawn said mysteriously. "Of course, one sample of a man's art is not enough." He flicked the control and the holographic pendant vanished, to be replaced by a long, blocky, cylindrical shape that looked much more familiar to the captain.

"Sir—isn't that—"

"A lightsaber," the admiral concurred. "Supremely functional art. A magnificent sample of the weapon, is it not?"

Piett found it rather unimpressive. Its industrial durasteel casing and Prexlyne grip had all the artistic appeal of an engine schematic. "Hardly aesthetic, sir," he remarked.

"An important point," Thrawn said encouragingly. "A very important point. Attraction is clearly not its purpose. Rather, it is functional, unpretentious, lethal, direct, versatile, capricious—the characteristics of its master."

A terrible thought suddenly alighted in Piett's mind. "Sir—you can't mean that's—"

"Lord Vader's?" Thrawn finished for him, lips curved in a slight smile. "Naturally."

Piett thought he might have to jump ship after all. "Sir—_why_?"

"Suffice it to say, Captain," Thrawn said coolly, "that I have happened upon information Lord Vader would personally wish to know. And I have concluded that this is the best way in which to impart this information."

"Sir," Piett began, "I do not think that I—"

"Stay where you are, Captain," the admiral ordered firmly as Piett attempted to edge his way out the door before Vader could arrive and catch them both studying his personal effects. "Your presence at this meeting is necessary, I assure you."

"I'm sure it's not that necessary, sir," Piett stammered.

Thrawn gave another cryptic smile. "It is critical, Captain."

* * *

The note had arrived by mouse droid, barely ten minutes after he had fled—no, made a tactical retreat—from the little cabin currently housing his unwitting daughter. It was a good thing the sender had chosen a mechanical means of delivery, because no living messenger would have survived Vader's current temperamental state. As difficult as Luke's trust had been to win, Leia was well on the way to making him look like a pushover. In scarcely five minutes she had managed to infuriate him beyond reason, dredge up an ocean of insecurities, and send him fleeing headlong from accusing memories of Padmé—and that all without the rather major knowledge that she was his daughter.

Thinking of this, his hatred of Bail Organa attained newfound heights, driving him wild with frustration as he tried to think of a fate cruel enough for the man and repeatedly failed. Death was simply too kind, and no amount of pain would make up for the fact that his daughter had been brainwashed against him. In case all this was not enough to work him into a fit of mindless rage, his son and younger daughters were still missing, and Baranne was no closer to retrieving them than he had been hours ago.

Considering these factors, and also considering the fact that he had left explicit orders not to be disturbed, it was in no way surprising that the valiant little mouse droid met with such an immediate and grisly fate upon its intrusion into his private maelstrom. Out of a morbid hope that he might find even better justification for strangling whichever officer had dared defy his orders, Vader summoned the datapad out of the wreckage of the droid and opened the message.

It was very brief—only two sentences long.

And it was the most terrifying thing he had ever read.

With a quick glance at the chrono—dear Force, if he didn't go now he'd be late—and sparing a few seconds to post several stormtroopers outside the locked doors of his quarters and hopefully ensure Leia's safety—he stormed out of his quarters.

It seemed that having an intelligent admiral in one's fleet was a double-edged sword. One he was dangerously close to falling upon.

* * *

Nothing but years and years of ingrained military discipline kept Piett from diving beneath the admiral's desk when Vader finally stalked into the room. Was it just his imagination, or was the rage boiling off the Dark Lord actually thick enough to choke him?

Admiral Thrawn, of course, was as perfectly nonchalant as ever. He hadn't even switched the image of the lightsaber off the projector yet. Casually he glanced up from his examination of the rotating image and nodded. "Thank you for coming, my lord," he offered mildly. He gestured at the holographic lightsaber, and then at the actual artifact hanging from Vader's belt. "As I have been explaining to Captain Piett, you have a most impressive weapon."

Piett could hardly believe the admiral had gotten through such a long speech before being throttled, but it seemed Thrawn's credit with Vader was much greater than he had ever imagined possible. Still, it was only a matter of time.

"Dismiss the captain," Vader ordered. His voice was the softest and coldest Piett had ever heard it. That could not be good.

"I'm afraid I must ask you to indulge me for a few minutes longer," Thrawn told him apologetically. "You see, I very much wish Captain Piett to hear what I have to say."

The great masked helmet flickered to Piett and gave him a cursory glance up and down. His fingers tapped at the hilt of his lightsaber. "Very well," he said, and Piett knew that he had just been filed under _Dispensable_.

_I should have jumped ship._

"I have asked both of you here in order to deliver an invitation," Thrawn announced. "A rather select invitation."

"My patience, Admiral, is wearing perilously thin," Vader snapped. "What is it you want?"

Thrawn stepped coolly around the holoprojector and met Vader's glower straight on. "I'd like to ask the two of you to help me overthrow Palpatine and reform the Empire."

The quiet hiss of the air intake vent sounded like pitched small-arms combat in the subsequent silence.

_I didn't hear that correctly. There's no way in all the nine Corellian hells that I could have heard that correctly. _

"And I suppose," Vader finally snarled, "that you think you can coerce me by means of _this_."

He hurled a datapad onto the desk near Piett, who read the terse message without even meaning to. It was incomprehensible to him.

_I know where Anakin's son is. Meet me in my quarters at 1500 hours. A.T._

"I have no interest in coercing you, my lord," Thrawn answered calmly. "Incidentally, that is the reason for Captain Piett's presence." He turned crisply to face the captain and handed him a datapad. "Captain, this datapad contains a complete list of over three thousand individuals within the senior ranks of the Imperial Navy and civil service who have expressed their approval and provided active support for my plans." Producing an identical datapad, he handed it to Vader. "As does this one, my lord."

He surveyed their startled expressions for a moment with a cryptic smile. "As should be quite clear now, gentlemen, my interest is not in my personal wellbeing but in redeeming the total chaos produced by the present state of political arrangements. Revolt is on the rise in every sector. Unless we ourselves act now to correct the deficiencies in this Empire, what might have been a glorious improvement will degenerate into a system every inch as ineffective as the Republic and twice as implosive. I also think it should be clear that a permanent change of leadership is necessary."

"And what makes you think I would condone such a course of action?" Vader thundered.

Thrawn gestured at the projection of the lightsaber. "Because, my lord, I have studied you. You are not one to wait on the sidelines when a difficult job needs doing. You are not one to shirk responsibilities, be they public or _private_." The admiral placed peculiar emphasis on that last word. "You are not one to _submit to the control of external forces_."

Whatever secrets Thrawn was referring to, Piett could tell he was hitting the mark spot-on. Vader stood stock still, and even the hiss of the respirator seemed more subdued than usual.

"And finally," Thrawn added, flicking the image to the carved japor snippet, "you are not one to abandon those closest to you."

He switched off the projector. "If you would step outside for a few moments, Captain Piett," he said softly.

Piett was only too glad to flee.

* * *

"How do you know about my family?" Vader asked numbly, staring at the spot in the air where the japor snippet had vanished.

"I always make a point of researching my commanding officers as thoroughly as possible," Thrawn said, smiling lightly. "Although I must admit the risks are somewhat greater than usual in your case, they're still outweighed by the practical benefits."

"I begin to sympathize with the Emperor's desire to banish you to the Unknown Regions," Vader retorted.

Thrawn picked up the datapad containing the message he'd sent to Vader previously. "I doubt you'll be so sympathetic after you hear what I have to say," he continued grimly. "One of my contacts within Imperial Intelligence spotted your son about nine hours ago."

Vader jerked. "Where?"

"Imperial Palace."

"Impossible!" he barked reflexively, even as experience chided him that when it came to Luke, nearly anything was possible.

"I'm afraid it's true," Thrawn objected. "Some weeks ago this same contact reported that the Emperor had secretly made contact with the bounty hunter Boba Fett. Fett recently reappeared at the Palace, bringing a teenage boy in a portable cryo unit. All indications are that he's alive and well," he hastened to add. "As of the last report."

A surge of failure swept over him. _I failed, oh, Padmé, I didn't protect him…_

"If it was indeed Fett," Thrawn continued, "it could well explain why he was so easily able to penetrate the security at Bast Castle…"

It would indeed, but that was unimportant. His thoughts had flown onward to Sara and Sandra—what had happened to them? He would have asked, but wouldn't Thrawn have mentioned it if he had known about the girls as well?

Indeed he would have. Best to keep his silence and protect the littler ones as long as possible.

"My agent encountered Luke on Corellia," he said aloud, questioningly. "He was not at that time in the custody of the bounty hunter."

Thrawn shrugged. "Perhaps the boy contrived to escape momentarily from confinement in the hanger and was recaptured in consequent battle confusion. I assure you, my lord, my information is reliable. A boy by the name of Luke is in the Emperor's custody in his private quarters at Imperial Palace, and I personally think it's too much of a coincidence for that boy to be anyone other than your son."

He began flicking switches on the projector. "As I think is obvious, our respective objectives have intersected at a convenient point. You, of course, want your son back. I and those I represent want the Emperor removed from the scene. I think we can add a third branch to this intersection."

An image of Bail Organa materialized.

"I refer, obviously, to the Rebels." He shot Vader a shrewd look. "If my inferences are correct, Organa has been attempting to blackmail you into complicity with his interests already?"

Vader nodded grudgingly. Thrawn was far more dangerous an opponent than anyone had suspected, to have uncovered so many secrets and organized such a frighteningly viable coup without notice.

"Then we already know he is not totally averse to cooperating with Imperial elements in the interests of a common goal," Thrawn continued. "Furthermore"—the picture shifted, this time to a snapshot of Ferus Olin—"we have a Jedi in custody, a fairly skilled warrior by all reports, who could do a great deal to shift the balance of advantage to your favor with regards to Palpatine."

"Unlike Organa," Vader growled, "_he _has demonstrated considerable reluctance to cooperate."

"But, happily for us, the tables have recently shifted strongly in our favor."

The projector flickered to a portrait of Leia.

"What," Vader rumbled dangerously, "do you suggest?"

Thrawn drew his templed fingers beneath his chin, offering a thin smile. "I suggest, my lord, that we apply a little…leverage."

* * *

Much as Han hated to admit it (to himself, that was—not in his wildest dreams under a triple dose of truth serum would he mention any such thing to someone else), there was just no denying that the accommodations here trumped what Vader had to offer at Bast Castle. If he had to be held captive against his will, he couldn't have picked a more luxurius prison. For starters, he had a whole suite of rooms to himself: sitting room, library, bedroom, and 'fresher. It was probably twice as much space as the whole _Falcon_, cargo hold included, and when you remembered how expensive real estate was on Coruscant, that meant he must be standing on more money that he'd ever seen in his life.

The sheer roominess of the place paled next to the furnishings. Six-inch-deep plush-pile carpet was everywhere, so spongy he almost had trouble walking. His bed, big enough to hold a platoon of stormtroopers, was made up in silky sheets and blankets that he instinctively knew could feed a family of four for months. Fancy artwork hung on all the walls, even in the 'fresher. Holy Sithspit, he had actually taken a _bath_ in the vat-like tub, the first in his memory (in space, two-minute sonic showers were the rule, and on the streets of Corellia hygiene was a novelty).

Every now and then, the total opulence of the place forced him to pause for a moment and wonder why, exactly, he was working so damn hard to escape from it.

Han snorted at the thought, which was unwise since he was currently perched on top of the desk chair, which was wobbling on top of the desk. The slight movement sent one of the chair legs careening off the edge and he plummeted with a yell away from the ceiling air vent he'd been trying to investigate. Fortunately the six-inch carpet was there to break his fall and his head missed the edge of the bed frame by mere centimeters.

Han made a feeble attempt to haul himself upright, then dropped back with a groan. Wasn't any way in the nine hells he was going to fit himself through that vent anyway, any more than he could have gotten through any of the others he'd already checked, or the holographic windows, or the only door (the control panel, surface, and frame of which were made of battleship-grade durasteel _and_ magnetically sealed, and outside of which a whole squad of crack troopers was stationed around the clock anyway).

Seemed like the Emperor was wise to this whole Force-mumbo-jumbo business. The real Luke couldn't have Jedi-tricked his way out of this place, let alone an ordinary sort of guy like him. Shavit, not even _Vader_—nah, never mind, he'd have to put Vader up against a Super Star Destroyer to get even odds on him in a fight. With any luck, Han reflected dismally, Vader would make the same mistake everyone else had and come blazing in to rescue who he thought was Luke. If he was _really _lucky they'd get out of this joint before he had to say anything about what had happened to the twerplings.

Not that he actually _knew _what had happened to the twerplings. Maybe he could have found out something using the computer, but Han had been on the streets plenty long enough to know he'd better not put any kind of information in there that might give away his hand. Somebody was probably monitoring his terminal, just like somebody was no doubt watching his every move via security cams.

So in the end, all his efforts over the last couple of days were completely pointless. Morosely Han stared at the glowpanels overhead. How long could he keep the ruse going? Sooner or later, the walking corpse was bound to figure out that he didn't have an ounce of crazy wizardness in his body, and what would happen to him then?

Sitting up so fast he almost gave himself whiplash, Han leapt to his feet and ordered the morbid thoughts out of his head. Wallowing in despair wasn't gonna help any, after all. Besides that he had a job to do—the longer he kept the wrinkled old coot thinking that he was Luke, the longer Luke had to get to safety. Back with Vader, sunk into obscurity in some seedy Corellian cantina, hiding in a closet at Bail Organa's palace, he didn't care where, so long as neither the Emperor nor the bounty hunter could get at him. In the meantime, he'd better try to remember as damn much about that insane Force-stuff of Luke's as he could—

The main door to the suite hissed open, interrupting his thoughts. Han scowled, flung himself down on the carpet once more, and didn't bother getting up. He'd been here for two, maybe three days, and the only visitor he'd had in all that time was the Emperor's medic who kept comin' in and stickin' things in his mouth and jabbin' sensors at him and generally being a first-rate nuisance.

The ridiculously thick carpet muffled any footsteps he might have heard, but a telltale shadow painted itself across the floor from the direction of the bedroom doorway. Han groaned in exasperation and threw an arm across his face. "Listen, for the last fracking time, I'm _fine, _so go tell the old walking corpse if you want and leave me the hells alone!"

"Good evening to you as well, young Skywalker."

Han bolted to his feet with a yelp. He spun in midair to face the door, hoping against hope it was not who he thought it was, and was so distracted that his feet got snagged in the thrice-cursed carpet and sent him careening ingloriously across the bed. He snatched at the bedpost, trying to salvage a little dignity, but missed and wound up with his arms and shoulders splayed across the mattress while trying to push himself up on criss-crossed, half-buckled legs.

Luke would have been rolling on the ground, laughing hysterically at his clumsiness. The Emperor didn't so much as twitch a withered lip.

"I shall assume," he said—and his yellow eyes followed Han's every move as he wrestled his way back upright—"that your initial comments were addressed and referred to someone other than myself."

"Um," Han croaked. "Yeah. Definitely. Definitely meant the—erm—medic. Sorry." Then after a few seconds to think about, he hastily added, "Your Highness."

The Emperor cackled slightly, waving a hand in dismissal. "Not at all, my dear boy. You have provided me with an excellent point at which to commence your…re-education."

Han decided this was probably not the time to make any obstinate objections like last time. Nine hells, _last time _hadn't been the time either. That being said he was much too proud to come up with a really boot-licking sort of response, so he just figured it was better if he kept his mouth shut.

"I have a few points to make regarding the regrettable ignorance demonstrated in your less than erudite habits of expression," the Emperor continued, offering a wide, unnerving grin as he leaned forward on his gnarled walking stick. "Perhaps this conversation will be more comfortably conducted in the sitting room?"

It was in no way a suggestion. Ordering himself not to ask Palpatine what _erudite _meant, Han warily followed the wrinkled despot into the sitting room. "Do sit down, my young friend," the Emperor said pleasantly, waving at the assorted sofas and chairs. Han perched gingerly on the seat closest to the bedroom door, figuring he could bolt for the 'fresher and lock himself in if circumstances demanded. Palpatine settled down on a sofa opposite him and leaned slightly towards him with his hands wrapped around the shaft of the walking stick. The skin on his shriveled hands looked as thin and translucent as tissue paper, which was weird, but since that was less weird than the glowing yellow eyes or half-melted face, Han stared at them instead.

"As I mentioned earlier, your father—while, I am sure, well-intentioned—can hardly be expected to possess the necessary skills for raising and training a fine young man such as yourself," the Emperor began briskly. "Therefore, young Skywalker, taking into accounts the long friendship between your father and myself, I must consider the responsibility as my own."

"Thanks," Han managed to choke out, "but you really don't have to, I'm sure you're real damn busy running the galaxy and all, so—"

"I must insist, my young friend," the thin, venomously pleasant voice of the ruler of the known galaxy replied brightly. "The need is, after all, too great to ignore." The oily yellow gaze examined him head to toe, not without a hint of disgust.

Han bristled, forgetting entirely that he was supposed to be trying to keep things smooth and quiet as long as he could. "Nothing's fracking wrong with me! What the hells is that blasted medic tellin' people?"

"Let us," the Emperor with an air of saintly patience, "evaluate what is revealed by your initial response to my unexpected arrival."

"Hey—look," Han said in a rush, "you just scared me is all—"

"A point we shall address in due course," Palpatine said dismissively. "Firstly, there is the obvious issue of your vocabulary. Such coarse and plebeian expressions would horrify your dear, lamented mother, I assure you. More to the point, they do not befit a future Sith Lord."

Han started nervously. Future Sith Lord? Was that what the Emperor had in mind for Luke? Was this creep planning to make Luke just as much an evil son of a Hutt as he was?

_Nope, _the voice in his head said, _he's planning to make _you_ an evil son of a Hutt, cause in case you ain't noticed Luke's not the one he's got, you are._

"Who says I'm gonna be a Sith?" Han barked nervously.

The Emperor only cackled. "I have foreseen it, young Skywalker. Your capacity to master the Dark Side could surpass even that of your father. A pity, really, that your existence could render him…obsolete, shall we say." He fixed Han with a shrewd stare.

"Incidentally, this brings us to my next major observation, which is that your father—estimable as I am sure his motives are—has neglected your training."

"How d'you figure that?" Han snapped.

The Emperor leaned back a little further, and a sly smirk began wading through the wrinkles of his ruined face. "Do you imagine that I have ignored you these past several days, my young friend?"

Thinking he must mean the security cams, Han expected a number of criticisms on his inability to escape. He was thus quite surprised when the Emperor continued, "You have been startlingly quiet this entire time. I do hope that I am not intimidating you. I am your friend, you know."

Han didn't understand any of this except the last sentence, which he seriously doubted, so all he said was, "Right."

"It certainly is," Palpatine said testily. Apparently he'd sounded a touch too sarcastic for the old man's liking. "However, judging from the fact that you did not sense my arrival in advance, I am sadly forced—though, I hope you understand, it is only with the deepest reluctance that I say anything against your father—I am sadly forced to conclude that he has failed to provide you with the proper training for your extensive talents…"

Han missed some of what was said next because he was too busy trying to sort out the clue he'd just been given. It seemed like the Emperor must be talking about this crazy-magic-Force-stuff that Vader and Luke—and it looked like the Emperor—could do. At least, he'd heard Luke say stuff about being able to "sense his father in the Force," whatever the nine hells _that _meant. Whatever this Force-sensing thing was, the Emperor seemed to have noticed that he wasn't doing any of it—that must have been what he meant about Han being too quiet.

_Not good, _the nervous voice in his head yelped. Though it didn't look like Palpatine had gotten suspicious yet, sooner or later he was gonna think it was a bit fishy that Han never did any of the things crazy wacked-out Jedi wizards did. What if he got asked to make the sofa float or something? How the hells was he gonna bluff his way outta that one? _Sorry, Your Emperorness, I just don't feel like it this morning?_

Right. Yeah. _That_ would go over well.

"…a few simple skills quickly, given such a gifted student as yourself," the Emperor was saying now.

Han blinked. "Sorry—what?"

The evil yellow eyes speared him, looking even more irked than before. Han almost winced. _Better pay attention from now on, Solo. _"I hope you do not intend to make a habit of forcing me to repeat myself," he said. There was a dangerous edge to his words. "There are a great many demands on my time besides you, young Skywalker."

"Sorry," Han gulped. There was an uneasy pause. "Your Highness."

The Emperor leaned back a little, somewhat mollified. "No matter. I had thought we might begin our little lessons with a few simple techniques of the Force…"

Han's heart thumped with terror and his breath stuck in his throat.

"…but it seems clear that our first order of business must be the correction of various inadequacies in your behavior."

Han nodded his head enthusiastically out of sheer relief. Anything to keep the issue of wizardy-stuff at bay.

"Excellent," the Emperor said. "Then we shall begin. You, my friend, are the student. _I _am the master. I shall expect you to demonstrate an appropriate measure of respect and obedience. There shall be an end of this gross rebellion in which your father has permitted you to indulge."

Han gritted his teeth and nodded again.

"For example," the Emperor snapped, "you shall articulate your responses instead of wagging your head around like a reek."

"Yes, Your Highness," Han ground out.

The Emperor settled forward on the cane, grinning broadly once more. His teeth were as yellow as his eyes. "A gem in the rough, to be sure, my young friend, but I daresay that with an energetic application of discipline, we may make something useful of you yet." He stood and began making his way to the suite entrance. "I am afraid my attention is required elsewhere, but we shall speak again on these matters tomorrow, my young friend."

Han watched him leave, then collapsed back into the billowing carpet with a loud groan. "I'm dead," he mumbled through a mouthful of wooly fluff.

* * *

tbc...


	46. Here There Be Monsters

A/N: Believe it or not, I'm back. Outline or no outline, there are still sticky places in the story and inspiration tends to come in fits and starts, but my Muse has looked on me with favor in recent weeks and I've got a chapter for you! I'm still a little iffy about parts of it, but I'll leave it to you to decide and/or enjoy as you like. Tell me what you think, please; I really love hearing from all of you. :) To reiterate my mantra, constructive criticism is always most welcome.

Specific to this chapter, some of you might think that Vader is acting out of character. Feel free to comment on that in your reviews if you think he is, but also expect further explanation of his motivations the next time we see him with Leia. I think that should make it into the next chapter.

With regards to the future of this story, once again, no promises on when the next chapter may appear, due to extraordinary demands on my time (study abroads will do that to you). However, I do have quite a bit more written at the moment, so the situation looks hopeful. I have about a page and half more of outline to go; I'd say it's looking perhaps in the vicinity of 5 to 10 more chapters left. As a rough, very rough, estimate, you understand. :)

* * *

Vader left Leia alone just long enough for her to recover from the temporary emotional tidal wave, about half an hour perhaps. When the door slid back once again to reveal the Sith Lord looming on the other side, Leia could only hope her eyes weren't still red.

"Come," he ordered tersely.

She really didn't feel like keeping up the charade of intractability, but she was also much too stubborn to do anything else, so she crossed her arms and stayed sitting right where she was. "Not unless you're taking me to my parents," she snapped, fixing her stare regally on the opposite wall.

"As a matter of fact," Vader growled, "I am."

Leia whirled to face him, eyes wide with surprise. "You…you are?"

"Come," he repeated flatly.

Not sure whether she ought to trust him or not, and feeling a bit resentful that he had so handily undercut the ground she'd been at such pains to stand on, Leia finally picked herself up off the cot and approached. He gripped her firmly by the upper arm and propelled her just ahead of him through a couple of short corridors, and finally into a large dark chamber equipped with an elegant interstellar com array. It didn't take Leia long to realize that she'd been had.

"I don't see my parents anywhere," she seethed, trying to tug her arm out of his grasp.

"You will shortly," he retorted, entering commands on the control console. The projector suddenly whirred to life, and the figure of one of her father's aides appeared in midair. His eyes widened as, releasing Leia's arm, Vader stepped onto the transmission platform. "Get me Senator Organa on an encrypted connection," he ordered.

In the intervening minutes—after a surreptitious but failed attempt to get the door of the chamber open—Leia decided that she didn't like where this was going. When her father's face finally appeared in holographic form, Leia's joy at seeing him again was tempered by an awful, gut-deep foreboding. Before she could say anything to him or otherwise make her presence known, something invisible and heavy pressed her into her place and seemed to fill her mouth. She couldn't even make an indignant squeak.

"Lord Vader," her father said, with his usual refined nod. "I assume from your instructions to my aide that you wish to discuss our earlier arrangements."

"I do indeed," Vader thundered. "I am altering the deal."

Bail Organa leaned forward warily. "I believe we agreed you're in no position to do that."

"Circumstances," Vader said triumphantly, "have changed." The next thing Leia knew the invisible heavy stuff had drawn her up onto the transmission platform in full view. The most horrible look evolved in her father's eyes.

"Leia?" he asked slowly.

Just as she found herself able to speak again, she realized it was the last thing she wanted to do.

"Leia, is that you?"

"Answer him," Vader ordered.

She swallowed, realizing that no amount of indignation would do her or her father any good. Vader simply didn't care what laws he broke. After all, he seemed to have no conscience to restrain him, and what or who else in the galaxy could do anything to stop him? She'd better seize the chance to talk to her father while she could, however she could, because she might never see him again. "It's me, Daddy," she whispered. "I'm alright."

"For the moment," Vader added dangerously. "I trust I need hardly state that you ought not take that state of affairs for granted, Senator."

Something coalesced and hardened in Bail Organa's expression. "Before you start threatening Leia, there is something you ought to know about her background—"

"I am perfectly aware of it," Vader snarled. "I am perfectly aware of _everything_." One massive glove suddenly curled around the back of Leia's neck; she stiffened and sucked in a breath. "Do not imagine that that information will prevent me from punishing you for your presumption."

The horror was back in her father's eyes, but it was ten times worse than before. "Dear Force, man, do you mean to tell me that you'd murder your own—"

"We will discuss the details within the hour," Vader cut him off. "Any decisions on your part to speak about these matters to other ears would be…regrettable." His grip constricted pointedly around the nape of Leia's neck.

"Don't do what he says, Daddy!" she burst out suddenly and fervently. "Don't—"

Vader reached out and switched off the connection. She stared, breathing heavily, at the empty space where it had almost seemed that her father had really been. Finally she glanced up. Vader was regarding her silently from his loftier height.

"You have a brave spirit, little Princess," he said to her.

"You're _evil_," she said. Her chest throbbed with dull, slow-heating anger.

"You do not understand the situation sufficiently to make such a judgment," Vader informed her. He marched out of the room, hauling Leia along by his grip on her neck and shoulders. Thinking of the look on her father's face, Leia didn't have the strength to put up a fight.

* * *

Ferus Olin didn't think he could say that he was feeling _better_, per se. But having had several hours of practice, he felt that he had come to terms sufficiently with the pain to operate around it. This didn't necessarily translate to increased chances of a successful escape, but at least he was clear-minded enough to be on the lookout for an opportunity. This was an Imperial Star Destroyer detention block, which meant everything operated on a standardized schedule. If the Force was with him, he should be able to find a weakness to exploit to his advantage.

Accordingly, he had begun trying to time the patrols and shift changes and meals. It was very difficult to do, limited as he was to only passive use of the Force. Vader's looming darkness was still actively hemming him. The most the Jedi could do was pick apart whatever sensations reached him, trying to identify human presences and locations and map out patterns, hindered by his amorphous sense of the passage of time. He suspected the detention block personnel of deliberately delivering meals at irregular times so as to further skew his perception, but with no objective markers he couldn't be certain.

Whatever the pattern really was, there was no denying that it was significantly interrupted when the detention guards poured into his cell and hauled him out. Ferus expected to be dragged into another interrogation room, probably with Vader waiting for him, but instead the guards hustled him down the corridor and through the security station into the turbolift. For a long, tense moment, as the lift raced towards its destination, Ferus debated making a full-fledged escape effort when they exited. If he rallied for one huge moment, he might be able to surge free of Vader's oppressive weight and wield the Force against the guards and make a run for it.

He decided against it. He wasn't strong enough. Even if he could win a moment of freedom from Vader's constraint, it was sure to be only a moment; and he would never get another chance. The Sith would know immediately that he was attempting escape and the whole ship would be placed on alert. Weak as he was, he stood no chance of fighting off the whole Destroyer. No—his only hope would be to slip out of the Empire's grip quietly, secretly, without giving Vader any cause for alarm. He'd have to bide his time, conserve his strength.

The troopers, half dragging him and half lugging him since he could only walk so far before collapsing, took him through a series of corridors and lifts. Vader's dark presence loomed nearer and nearer; Ferus was in no way surprised when they came to a halt outside the dark lord's quarters. He spent a minute reminding himself through clenched teeth of all his reasons for not attempting an escape, but once faced with an imminent renewal of torture, they became less convincing.

The doors glided open. The guards marched him inside the front room, deposited him on the floor, and left. Ferus pushed himself up on his hands and knees as he heard footsteps approaching. He raised his head in time to see Vader enter…

…And forced along beside him, young Leia Organa.

Ferus had assumed that he must look dreadful after his recent ordeal. Leia's horrified gasp served as proof. It sounded like the first nail in his coffin. He drew a painful breath, knowing that the fight was over for both of them. His only consolation was that he'd never have to face Bail Organa.

He mustered the energy for a final admonition. "Remember—what I said—before, Leia. It still—stands—" His voice dissolved in racking, bloody coughs from deep in his badly abused chest. Perhaps if both of them held out, they might stand a chance of protecting Luke Solo. Unless Vader had recaptured the boy as well.

"Anything you said before is irrelevant, Olin," Vader rumbled. Leia tried to lunge forward towards him; the dark lord dragged her back in line effortlessly. Ferus drummed up a brief smile for her benefit. "As you can see, your protégé is in my control. I am going to give you the opportunity to keep her safe."

"Leia…I'm sorry," Ferus rasped. He turned his head toward Vader, an awkward angle from his current precarious position on hands and knees. "I am not—telling you—anything."

"I do not require information from you any longer," Vader returned. Ferus was so surprised he nearly dropped to the deck altogether. "I require your cooperation," the dark lord continued.

There was a long pause as Ferus processed this turn of events. "Cooperation—with what?"

The response that came was strictly via the Force. An unmistakable image of a lightsaber duel presented itself forcibly—Vader and himself battling together to eliminate the Emperor.

Ferus stared up, totally—in fact almost literally—floored. _Are you insane? _he sent back incredulously.

_You desire this man gone. So do I._

The Jedi scowled. _What good does it do me to get rid of one galactic despot just to see another take his place?_

Vader's train of thought nudged him darkly towards the princess. _It does _you_ no good. She, on the other hand, will be permitted to live if you cooperate. Provided you can be of use to me, though, I might even refrain from killing you._

The idea suddenly occurred to Ferus that his opportunity was here. As things stood, neither he nor Leia had any hope of survival. But if he could seize this chance to regain his strength, maybe even to acquire a greater degree of freedom of action, he might—the Force willing—find an opening and whisk himself and Leia out of danger.

_I'm not going to be any use at the moment, you know_, he pointed out dryly.

_My medic will see to that, _Vader returned dismissively.

Feeling spent, but finally with a thread of hope clutched firmly, Ferus nodded and rasped aloud, "Agreed." Then, as Vader started away with Leia, he scratched out, "I'll be alright, Leia."

She twisted around in Vader's grip and he caught a glimpse of horror-struck wide brown eyes before they vanished around the doorframe. He was left trying to stop his muscles from trembling and wondering what the hells anyone expected from him now when a bushy-haired man in a white medic's coat appeared through the same entrance. He took one look at Ferus and shook his head deploringly.

"Heal the prisoner, he says," grumbled the medic, thumping over and plopping down his kit bag. "Three days, he says! Dear holy goddess, man, _look _at you! What does he think I am, a miracle worker?"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Ferus managed hoarsely, "Doctor…"

"Siler. Won't bother asking for your name, he'd have my head for it. Well, then, let's see what I can do with you, shall we?"

"I'm game," Ferus wheezed.

The medic gave a short laugh as he hefted Ferus up to his feet. "I'll bet you are."

* * *

Getting back on the conveyor belt was tricky with two toddlers and one limping adult, but in the end Lando found an old tool rack that they managed to turn into a makeshift ladder. Luke clambered up and they passed the twins between them, then finally Lando shuffled to the top and Luke managed to haul him up by the arms. They picked their way forward down the belt to catch up with the twins.

"So tell me," Lando grunted as the belt shot over a particularly enormous jolt, "what is it with you and Solo and bad transportation arrangements?"

"What is with you and complaining about it?" Luke shot back, tucking Sara under one arm. She had taken to the belt ride with rather too much enthusiasm and kept trying to creep over towards the edge to watch the ground rushing by. Sandra, on the other hand, could not be detached from Lando's side. She had appropriated the remains of his cape as a blanket and was peering out from beneath it, regarding the rickety belt with obvious trepidation.

"Kwishy, das scary," she whimpered. "Want Dadda."

"It's okay," Luke answered. "We just have to rescue Han, and then we can go back home, alright?"

"Das gonna be long?" Sandra asked mournfully.

"Maybe a few days," Luke hedged. "Not too long. Lando's gonna watch you until we can get Han back."

"Is that right?" Lando asked incredulously. "I don't think so, kid. I'm getting you three back to your ship and then I am _out _of this system."

"Really? Where's your ride?"

Sithspit. It was back in Imperial City. Like the ninth hell Lando was going back there anytime soon.

"Plus," Luke pointed out, "you need to get your leg fixed and I've got med supplies on the ship. Once we get Han back we can fly you out of system, wherever you want."

"Fine," Lando groused. They spent the rest of the belt ride trying to distract Sara from making any perilous expeditions and Sandra from being terrified. Lando had never been happier than when they gingerly stepped off the rushing belt onto a convenient load-access platform, despite the fact that the sudden change of velocity sent him careening facedown on the durasteel mesh. After that it was a tedious journey up through the levels of the rundown factory. Between their various limitations it took a good hour to hike up through the building to the access bay where Luke and Master Yoda had parked the _lambda_ shuttle. Luke led them up the ramp and punched in the access code.

"Alright," he said, "there you go. I'll be back."

"Where the hells do you think you're going?" Lando barked, setting Sandra down inside the ship (both twins had worn themselves out ages ago). "If you're thinking about going back to Imperial City, forget it."

"Of course I'm going back," Luke burst out. "I have to help rescue Han!"

"That," Lando said, pointing a finger and fully aware of how un-intimidating he probably looked with one leg buckled beneath him, "is stupid. If your Jedi Master friend can take on Boba Fett without blinking, I guarantee you he doesn't need help from a—how old are you?—well, however old you are, it's definitely not old enough! Besides, what the hells do you expect me to tell that father of yours if I let you run off into danger again and you get yourself killed or kidnapped or something?"

Luke seemed quite taken aback by the idea that any grown-ups were there to take care of his problems. "But—but—but Han came back for me, so—"

"I don't give a bucket of Hutt slime what Han did," Lando barked. "If I try to take these two sisters of yours back to your father without somebody to tell him I'm not the one who took 'em in the first place, I'm dead. So _you_ are staying here and that way we'll all get out of this cesspool in one piece."

Luke scowled, and Lando expected the kid to just take off—after all, it wasn't as if he, with a bad leg to boot, could really stop him. But Luke seemed to have made a habit out of surprising him. "Fine," he muttered, stalking up the ramp. "I'll stay."

* * *

"I don't like it," Jan Dodonna's fuzzy blue figure growled.

"And I suppose you think I do?" Bail retorted bitterly. He glanced involuntarily across the office at Breha, who was sitting out of the pickup zone, her face as pale as porcelain. Perhaps more than anything else, the realization that something could shatter his wife's almost militant composure had given Bail the determination to try and take the reins of this runaway disaster. Most of him wanted to flee groveling to Vader, do anything the man said, submit to any depraved abuse, if he could but spare Leia the horror of being taken by a father who had expressed a perfect willingness to harm his daughter if it would work to his political advantage.

But the sight of Breha, crushed into helplessness by the news of Leia's situation, roused something else in him—something that would fight to the last straw, take any risk to restore their family and to put the world right so that nobody would ever again be able to kidnap their daughter and threaten her life with impunity.

Unfortunately, this small, indomitably ferocious something wasn't going to be much good on its own .Convincing the Rebel Alliance to go along with Vader's coup, if that was even possible, was going to be the most difficult diplomatic endeavor of his life. Jan Dodonna wasn't about to make it any easier.

"Dear Force, man," the Rebel general burst out, "you're suggesting that I ask our men—our men who have seen their comrades and families die at the hand of this man—to _work _with him? How the hell do you expect me to ask that from them?"

"I'm not suggesting it ought to be a permanent state of affairs," Bail snapped. "But there are plenty of good strategic reasons for doing it temporarily."

Dodonna barked a cynical laugh. "There's only one reason you're asking us to do this, Bail, and her name is Leia."

"She's not the only reason," Bail gritted out, managing to bite back an instinctive retort about the inability of crusted old spacefaring battleaxe-wielding bachelors to appreciate the bond of parent to child. "Leia is not the only child whose life is at stake in this situation. I trust you remember Han and Luke Solo."

Dodonna blanched. "Vader didn't—"

"Vader has them as well," Bail forged on.

Dodonna blew out a fatigued breath. "Listen," he began in a carefully reasonable tone, "Bail, I _know _she's your daughter. Let my men mount a rescue operation. But we just _can't _risk the entire Alliance, and possibly the future of the galaxy, for the sake of three children! The situation is tragic, I understand that, I _hate_ that, but I'm sorry I've got to tell you that I simply can't let my sympathy for them overrule my sympathy for the trillions of others of beings in this galaxy suffering under Imperial oppression!"

"I think we need to tell them, Bail," Breha suddenly intervened. Bail looked up at Breha for a questioning moment—he was not about to let out any information that would increase his wife's fear for Leia's safety—but she pursed her lips and nodded firmly.

"Tell us what?" another female voice asked. On the right side of Bail's desk, the shimmering holographic projection of Mon Mothma had sat through the preceding minutes of conversation in observant silence.

"Jan, Mon—Luke Solo and Leia are twins."

Dodonna's eyes narrowed. "How the hells do you know _that_?"

"Because I was there when they were born," Bail answered flatly. "They're Padmé's children."

Mothma sank forward in her seat. A longing, sick expression had come over her face. "Dear goddess. _Padmé_'s?"

Bail nodded.

"But how? _When_?"

"She was married secretly just after the beginning of the Clone Wars," Bail continued grimly. "To Anakin Skywalker."

Mothma shook her head in mute bewilderment. "Three years. To think I never knew. Bail"—her voice ached with morbid hope—"is that—I mean, do you think that in the Purges—that that was why she—"

"I know exactly why she died," Bail said bitterly. "She was betrayed by the same man who perpetrated the Purges."

"By Vader?" Dodonna said quizzically. "Vader didn't even appear on the scene until after the initial attack on the Jedi Temple. You know that. To this day nobody knows what hole that monster crawled out of—"

"Wrong," Bail told him. "He was on the front lines of the war from day one." When their faces remained blank, he snapped, "Dear Force, don't you see it? _Vader is Anakin Skywalker._"

Mothma's hand flew to her chest and Dodonna's jaw fell slack. "Dear goddess," Mothma whispered, "_Padmé_…"

"_Now _do you see why we've got to get Luke and Leia away from him?" Bail snapped. "It's not just their lives at stake! Those children have an enormous amount of Force potential, and if we allow the Sith to pervert them to their own evil purposes, the same way that Palpatine did Anakin Skywalker—we've _seen _what can happen! The results of that are the very things the Alliance has built itself to fight against! If we give the Sith another opportunity to consolidate power and add to their number, what chance will we ever have?"

"So in your point of view," Dodonna continued slowly, "this is a case of divide-and-conquer."

"Precisely. We side with Vader for the time being in order to eliminate the Emperor, who—need I remind you—singlehandedly orchestrated the destruction of a ten-thousand-year-old galactic government and is therefore further proof that preventing the creation of more Sith Lords ought to be our primary objective. At the same time we have the chance to drive a wedge between Vader and the Imperial Navy that backs him. I guarantee you, Admiral Thrawn will have no use for Vader after he's served his purpose. By participating in the coup we distract both of the Sith from focusing any attention on brainwashing Luke and Leia, and by getting closer to them we increase our chances of rescuing them unscathed."

Bail took a pause to breathe, drink some water, and reassure himself that all this wasn't the riskiest thing he'd ever proposed in his life before continuing. "As I told you earlier I spoke in a secret conference not long ago with Vader and his admiral, Thrawn, who I suspect is the real mastermind behind this entire scheme. I've checked out his dossier. If it's a three-way choice between Palpatine, Vader, and Thrawn, then Thrawn is the one to work with."

"Bail, he's an Imperial admiral," Dodonna groaned. "He's complicit in the system. What in the galaxy makes you think he would be a genuine improvement?"

"He's not a megalomaniac, for starters," Bail retorted. "No record of genocide or child slaughter to date. As far as I'm concerned that already puts him lightyears ahead of Vader or Palpatine. With Vader it's all about brute force, but Thrawn has an impressive intellect and I think it's clear he's been using it."

"Palpatine has an impressive intellect," Mothma pointed out dryly. "I think we ought to be careful about thinking that that's a positive quality."

"Yes, but _unlike _Palpatine, Thrawn's not Force-sensitive," Bail argued. "He's not motivated by any insidious Sith ideology. And as you noted, Jan, he's actively trying to overthrow a galactic system from which he personally benefits. Clearly his objections are on other grounds than personal interest."

"Palpatine personally benefited from the system _he_ overthrew," Dodonna objected waspishly.

"That was a democratic system," Bail said. "It didn't grant the kind of totalitarian power that the Empire does. If Thrawn was after supreme personal power, he'd merely want to usurp the Imperial throne. He wouldn't need any help from outside the system. He certainly wouldn't want to suck Vader into the power struggle the way he's done already. I think we're looking at a man with practical and moral objections to the present galactic government, and I think that means the Alliance has a chance to work with him and influence the decisions he makes after eliminating Palpatine. Our approaches are different—"

"Obviously," Dodonna snorted, "if the man doesn't mind working with a mass murderer to achieve his objective—"

"—But I think we've got a massively better chance of constructive dialogue with Thrawn than we do with Vader or Palpatine," Bail finished. "If we have a chance to implement genuine democratic change _without_ plunging the galaxy through another bloody civil war, I believe that we're honor-bound to try it."

Dodonna didn't look convinced that the opportunity was worth the risk, but Bail was far more interested in the chief leader of the Alliance, who had now leaned back in her chair with her fingers steepled thoughtfully against her lips. After a suspenseful pause, she gave a slow nod. "Alright. We'll take our chances."

Dodonna heaved a deep breath. "If those are your orders, ma'am, I'll see them done."

"I'll get you in contact with Thrawn's operative," Bail said. "He claims he's got one somewhere in the Alliance."

Dodonna looked half peeved at the information, and half mollified at the realization that if it was true the Imperial admiral had clearly refrained from doing all the damage to the Alliance that he might have.

"In the meantime," Bail continued tightly, "I think it's time I did a little scheming of my own with the admiral. One way or another, Vader has got to go." Across the desk, although her eyes didn't leave the hologram of Leia displayed on the wall, Breha nodded grimly.

* * *

tbc...


	47. Father, Meet Son

A/N: My apologies for being so very slow in posting this chapter. It has actually been written for quite awhile but life has not gotten any less busy and technology has gotten steadily less cooperative since the last chapter went up. In order to make amends, I have a) posted a decently long chapter and b) included a few scenes which ought to make quite a few of you quite happy. I know I had fun writing several of them. :P My apologies to anyone whose reviews I have not yet answered; I'll get there at some point, but in the meantime know that your comments are very much appreciated. They're a writer's best reward. :D

* * *

Piett gulped heavily and tugged surreptitiously at his collar as Vader descended onto the bridge of the _Executor_, barreling across the catwalk to the com deck where the captain stood waiting for the connection with Admiral Thrawn and the _Vindicator_ to be put through. He hadn't seen the dark lord since the terrifying meeting in the admiral's quarters. Since then, Thrawn had put his schemes into motion, and Piett had been kept so busy coordinating the new deployment orders for Fifth Fleet that he hadn't had time to wonder what Vader was doing.

Unhappily, Thrawn's plan called for the _Executor_ to report solo to Coruscant, while he remained with the rest of Fifth Fleet and finalized preparations. It seemed that most of the admirals of the sector fleets were complicit already in this planned coup; while Vader diverted the Emperor's attention somehow, Thrawn would direct practically the entire Imperial Navy in a synchronized convergence on the capital system. Any Palpatine loyalists in the Coruscant system wouldn't stand a chance against the vast amount of firepower that Thrawn would bring to bear. It was a flawless strategy…except for the part where a compromised Piett was going to be left at Vader's diminutive mercy for a very long hyperspace jump. He was not so stupid as to think reason would be likely to overrule temper if the dark lord decided to attach blame for the admiral's presumption on his hapless ship captain.

If Vader had laid any plans for Piett's imminent demise, he gave no sign of it as he strode up. The connection to the _Vindicator_ went through before Piett had to say anything, so he saluted and stepped out of the way.

"Lord Vader," Thrawn nodded.

"Admiral," Vader rumbled. "You have my orders for the next two weeks, I assume."

"Received and duly examined, my lord," Thrawn said crisply. "The Fleet will be waiting for you in the Yahdiil system in two standard weeks as ordered. Normal operational deployments should be resumed within three days."

"I expect to be notified when all re-deployments are complete," Vader reminded him.

"Of course, my lord. May I wish you a safe journey to Coruscant."

Vader nodded crisply and cut the connection. "Captain, you have my navigational orders. The helm may commence."

"At once, my lord," Piett said quickly, wasting no time making an about-face and marching to the nav station. "Navigation, take us to hyperspace."

* * *

The great Super Star Destroyer shrugged itself into hyperspace with patented Sienar ease. Thrawn surveyed the stellar vista from the _Vindicator_'s observation deck for a few moments before retreating to his office and accepting the encrypted call that had been waiting for him. Senator Bail Organa appeared in fuzzy blue miniature.

"Thank you for your time, Admiral," he said.

"Not at all, Viceroy, not at all," Thrawn answered, with a reserved smile that his colleagues would have been scandalized to see him offering to a Rebel ringleader. "You and I are compatriots in this endeavor. I assume that's what you wish to discuss?"

"In a manner of speaking," the Alderaanian ruler said, meshing his fingers on the top of his desk. "Allow me to be frank with you, Admiral. Those whom I represent are willing to support this enterprise, but I'm sure it doesn't come as a surprise to you that they, and I, will have certain expectations about the results should we succeed."

"Perhaps you could be more specific about these expectations," Thrawn suggested mildly, tumbling an old-fashioned decorative pen in one hand.

"We're willing to negotiate on issues of governance," the viceroy answered, "but what is _not _negotiable is that there must be a complete break with the former regime."

"By the phrase _a complete break_, I assume that you mean precluding any possibility of the re-emergence of any presently influential figures."

"What I mean is, we don't have a deal unless it includes eliminating the Sith," Organa said flatly.

"That's a tall order," Thrawn said with a wry smile. "But as it so happens, you and I are in accord on this point. I have no more wish to see Vader on the Imperial throne than your constituents do. That would, after all, be rather counterproductive to the goals of this initiative."

Organa relaxed slightly.

"That said," Thrawn continued, "I think there's a good chance neither you nor I will have to do anything but let events take their course. In the meantime rest assured that I consider the support of your constituents of greater strategic importance than anything Vader brings to the table." His expression hardened. "Darth Vader has one role more to play in the determination of the course of the galaxy's future. After that his usefulness will have run its course. It's time he was replaced by men with more enlightened visions of governance. The Galactic Empire has served its purpose in forging the galaxy into a cohesive political entity, but that entity is now prepared to assume a more mature form of government." He allowed his smile to widen. "A Galactic Alliance, if you will."

"My constituents will hold you to your word," Bail warned grimly. "As will I."

Thrawn inclined his head in an urbane nod. "Please do, Senator."

* * *

Ensconced in the comfort of his private sanctum, the Emperor leaned back in his armchair and silently contemplated the projector before him. It was currently relaying footage from the security sensors in young Luke Skywalker's suite. The lanky, dark-haired teenager had thrown himself across the bed facedown and was idling away his time folding sheets of flimsiplast into crude aircraft and flicking them at a painting on the opposite wall.

Given other circumstances, the Sith Master might have indulged in derision. But Luke Skywalker was too much a puzzle to be seen in such simplified lights. Unlike his father, who had been an open book from the first day of their acquaintance, the son left Palpatine uncertain what he should make of him. He had expected someone very like a young Anakin, but Luke had proven a unique specimen. At their second encounter, he had used the phrase "a gem in the rough," but it was more accurate to describe the boy as a sport speeder that had been used for garbage collection. How entirely irritating that a boy who should have had every advantage—the powerful talent of his father, the intellect and refined breeding of his mother—had managed to grow up into _that_. Frittering away entire hours with a pointless pastime that would not have befitted him as a three-year-old, demonstrating no sign of the remarkable talent or intelligence he could not help but possess, and acting as though he'd never had a speck of real education in his life.

Not for the first time, Palpatine wondered what Vader could possibly have been thinking to let the boy sink deeper and deeper into this gutter. If his calculations were correct Vader had had the boy in his hands for several months at the least. It was simply incredible that a man who had possessed sufficient drive to climb out of the uneducated cesspool of slavery could tolerate this blatant lack of ambition in his son.

Unless, of course, Luke Skywalker was actually far cleverer than the Emperor gave him credit for being.

The idea that all of this might in fact be a calculated farce—that every paper aircraft flung aimlessly at the wall might be a deliberate ploy—sent thrills of fear and delight down Palpatine's spine. Just suppose that young Skywalker had put on this elaborate front, designed to convince him that he was wasting his time on a lost cause? Such an apprentice—the incredible raw power of a Skywalker, combined with a first-class manipulative genius—such an apprentice he could consider a worthy heir to the legacy of the Sith, an equal…perhaps even a superior, some day.

Despite all his aspirations to immortality, the Emperor could not help thinking that he might even be able to go to his death satisfied if he knew that such a worthy heir would succeed him.

Could he dare to indulge in such extravagant hopes? Were the grounds for such hopes solid? Or was he permitting his imagination to run away with them? He could not believe that the son of Vader was really such an unskilled dunce. But there were several stages between _dunce _and _genius_, and human beings overwhelmingly ranged somewhere between the extremes; perhaps another solution to the riddle was eluding him.

Whatever the whole truth, Palpatine reminded himself—watching young Skywalker roll over with a loud, plaintive groan and smash a pillow atop his face before flinging his arms out spread-eagle—the boy certainly knew more than he was letting on. Ever since his arrival, young Skywalker had not given even the slightest hint that he was Force-sensitive; his presence remained as steadfastly mundane as any of the lesser beings that swarmed all over the planet. An untrained novice could not have exhibited such excellent shielding. It was, the Emperor decided, grounds to expect significantly greater things from the young man.

The question, rather, was how he should go about breaking the present standstill. The options available at the moment were two: he could force his way through the boy's shields, or he could bide his time, slowly earning young Skywalker's trust. Neither was very attractive—forcing the boy would engender resentment, whereas winning his trust would be cost a great deal of precious time.

A smirk cracked its way across his ruined face. The choice was unpleasant but hardly a quandary. The option of force would always remain available. But Sith apprentices were not forged overnight. The all-important bond between master and student must not be neglected; else he might find that he had merely created a resentful attack dog that would turn at the first opportunity to sink its teeth into the jugular of its tormentor. The risk of that was far greater as long as Vader remained alive to give the boy a choice of masters. It was a curious phenomenon in the Emperor's opinion, but the fact remained that relationships between biological family members were wildly resilient. Vader could inflict any amount of cruel abuse, even to the point of threatening the boy's life, and it still might not be enough to shatter his son's loyalty. The only way Palpatine could combat that potent connection was by building one to rival it, all the while quietly seeding discord.

Speaking of the importance of master-apprentice bonds, he had better begin pondering how to deal with Vader. Nothing could incite Vader's fury like those who interfered with his family; he would have to placate that wrath while still censuring his apprentice for having hidden the child in the first place. It was necessary to allay the man's suspicions for the time; he could not yet dispense with his current apprentice. If he knew anything about Vader at all, the ticket would be a careful balance of severity and generosity. Straight-out lenience and amiability would never be believed; total harshness would exacerbate the fracture. Switching off the projector and putting his questions about Luke Skywalker away for the moment, the Emperor turned his scheming thoughts on the mechanics of soothing Vader's ruffled feathers.

* * *

By the time the _Executor _arrived in the Coruscant system, Ferus no longer harbored any questions about why Dr. Siler had been granted his position as Vader's personal medical assistant. The man was first-rate. Flexing his mostly-repaired muscles, the onetime Jedi admitted that the healers of the Jedi Temple would have been hard-pressed to do better in only three days. If he wasn't exactly in the best shape he'd ever been, Siler's skill and his own judicious use of Jedi healing techniques had at least rendered him fit for action with a few hours to spare.

That wasn't a moment too soon as far as Vader's operative was concerned. Ferus hadn't heard the man's name and he doubted he ever would, but the gray-eyed agent had been put in charge of smuggling him into Imperial City. His hair had been shorn into a regulation fuzz and he'd been given a uniform identical to the one he'd appropriated at Bast Castle. Other than a DNA mask injected into his bloodstream, that was the extent to which the agent chose to alter his physical appearance. His lightsaber would remain in Vader's possession until he had gotten inside Imperial Palace. The plan was to send him down with a shuttle of junior officers, passing him off as a transfer from one of the other Star Destroyers in Fifth Fleet. As for obtaining official clearance to pass through the security checkpoints of Imperial Palace, that was hardly an obstacle when one's co-conspirator ran the military and security structures of the entire Empire. Once inside, it was his job to go to ground and stay under the radar until it was time to strike.

Nothing, Ferus told himself gamely, that he hadn't done on covert missions as a Jedi Padawan a dozen times.

_Were you trying to dance around two Sith Lords back then too? _his subconscious jeered. _With the life of an innocent girl and the fate of the galaxy hanging in the balance?_

_Shut up_, he growled at it. _I've got enough to worry about without you reminding me. _With a last flick to straighten his uniform jacket, and checking his pocket to make sure his fabricated identification documents hadn't gotten lost somewhere, Ferus headed to the hangar bay where his shuttle was waiting for him. On the way he glanced through a viewport at the glittering, light-laced orb below him. Mirror satellites winked around it like gems in a necklace. The sunset line was beginning its curve across the eastern swell of the planet. It looked the same as he remembered it from his years at the Temple.

_Well, Coruscant, I'm back._

* * *

"You know," Han said loudly for the benefit of the security holocams, "this place is getting _real_ damn boring."

Of course, there wasn't any response. Somewhere, in a freezing little security control room umpteen gazillion floors away from him, some stupid teenage recruit was probably laughing his regulation haircut off. Han swore under his breath and stomped back into the bedroom, dropping himself down at the desk. All the books in the library had long, boring titles that looked like things that uppity Alderaanian princess would probably like reading. The only one that had sounded anything like worthwhile had been _A Survey of Modern Military Thought_, but it had turned out to be a lot of incomprehensible philosophical mumbo-jumbo. He had made the mistake of mentioning this during his most recent talk with His Wrinkled Wickedness. Now the shriveled old relic was making him _read_. Apparently this was supposed to "extend his intellectual scope" and "awaken his natural intelligence."

Han personally felt that the only thing being extended was his boredom, and "awakened" was exactly the opposite of the effect that _The Practice of Power: An Introduction to the History of Political Theory _was having on him. His Sadisticness expected him to have the thing read cover to cover two evenings from now. All one thousand five hundred and thirty five pages of it. Miserably Han observed that despite having tortured himself over it practically all day, he had only reached page one hundred and three.

Well, at least he'd finished the other book. He spared a derisive scowl for his thin copy of _H. Panerrie's Practical Survey of the Art of Society_, which was basically a list of the stupidest rules he'd ever heard in his life. Having grown up on the street where no one cared if he even _had _food, Han could only snort at the idea that there were people who would be offended by which fork he did or didn't eat it with. Problem was, the Emperor seemed to be one of them, which was the only thing that had kept Han reading to the end.

Okay, that, and a _teensy_ little bit of him that thought it might be useful information for impressing certain uppity princesses, if the occasion ever arose. Maybe.

Feeling mildly disgusted with himself and downright resentful of the Emperor, Han scooted his chair forward again and dropped his elbows down on the desktop with a thud, determinedly trying to focus himself on the book and get through the damn thing so that he wouldn't get thrown in a cell later. Maybe he might even understand a word or two along the way…

A telltale hiss informed him that someone had come in through the main door of his suite. "Aw, hell no," Han muttered to his book, massaging his forehead with one hand. He didn't feel up to another dangerous conversation with the Emperor.

"Luke Skywalker?" somebody with a thin, Coruscant-accented tenor asked behind him.

Han turned slowly in his chair, feeling relieved enough to don a comfortably cocky expression. It wasn't His Evil Eminence after all, just some pointless flunky in uniform. "Do you mind, pal? I'm tryin' to read."

The flunky smirked, and his nose twitched and his lip curled in a really masterful expression of disdain; Han was impressed in spite of himself. "The Emperor requests your presence in the throne room," he said, and added triumphantly, "I expect your reading will have to wait."

Han favored him with a disgusted grin. "Well," he said with obviously exaggerated cheer, "anything for His Imperialness." Although his stomach was lurching like a loose cargo crate in zero-g, he felt a tiny bit better to see the flunky's face flush red with indignation. Summoning up his courage and sticking his hands in his pockets, Han sauntered out after the flunky and hoped desperately that the jig wasn't finally up.

* * *

The _Executor _would arrive at Coruscant in less than half an hour. Vader checked the seals on his armor, opened his hyperbaric chamber, and started out of his quarters—he planned to be waiting aboard his shuttle, in order to depart for the planetary surface as quickly as possible. He did not wish to lose a single minute before seeing his son again. He also didn't want to give Palpatine a chance to issue a summons. He wasn't coming to Coruscant this time as a subordinate reporting to his master—he was coming as a Sith Lord in his own right, one who had been indefensibly wronged by a peer. He was issuing demands, not responding to them, and he wanted the Emperor aware of that difference immediately.

There were good reasons for doing so. For one, it would be a prime distraction to the old man—any assertive act on his part could be counted on to rouse Palpatine's wariness and suspicion. If the Emperor could be made to focus on the apparent danger from his apprentice close to home, he would be less aware of the greater threat Thrawn was secretly orchestrating outside the capital system. For another, by articulating one subversive demand—that the Emperor return the boy he had wrongfully taken—Vader could prevent the man from suspecting him of even more rebellious plans (such as imminent assassination and usurpation).

But if he was perfectly frank with himself, the driving reason behind his decision to accuse Palpatine to his face had nothing to do with strategy, and everything to do with the fact that he was a father whose child had been stolen from him _again_. A rage so hot it froze, a fury that had been smoldering restlessly ever since the first reports from Landre, erupted in him once more. How _dare_ Palpatine do such a thing? As if lying to him about the fate of Padmé had not been offense enough, now the man had dared to kidnap his son, torn him straight out of his own home, just as though he had a legitimate claim to the boy! And what of Sara and Sandra, whom Baranne had still not managed to locate? Had Palpatine's henchman Fett not stolen them as well? And then _lost _them in the underbelly of Corellia?

The anger was aching and nauseating, soaked through with dreadful fear for the lives of his daughters. No news of them, no word at all, not a single sighting. Were they even still alive? There was no end to the horrors that might devour two helpless toddlers, wandering alone in a galactic metropolis. And Luke, left at the dubious mercy of the Emperor, with no protection…A fanatical determination flooded in on top of his fury—no matter the cost, he _must_ get his children back.

He paused in step and thought as the door to Leia's room suddenly appeared on his left. How ironic that after all this searching he had only retrieved the child he hadn't even known existed.

Abruptly, the door hissed open from the other side. It was Miyr, carrying a tray with the leftovers of a meal for two. She spotted him and stiffened sharply. He was startled to notice outrage flickering in her brown eyes. He was even more startled to discover a responding twinge of guilt in his gut.

"How is the young Princess?" he asked hesitantly.

"Wonderful, my lord," Miyr responded icily. "I'm sure she'll get over the psychological trauma in no time."

Vader snapped an angry finger at her. "Do not presume to pass judgment on me, woman," he barked. "I have done nothing except with the intent to retrieve my children."

Miyr's eyes flashed in answering anger. "I apologize, my lord," she snapped. "I hadn't realized that it was only _your _children who deserved decent treatment."

Vader jerked, startled by the blunt reprimand and increasingly angered by it. Miyr spun on her heel and started down the corridor. She stopped halfway and marched back. "Forgive me," she began, not sounding contrite in the slightest, "but how can you subject that poor girl to such treatment when you have daughters yourself?"

Taken aback by the sudden, unrestrained display of independence on the part of a servant who had previously been the epitome of loyal obedience, Vader inadvisably retorted with the first response that came to mind. "She _is_ my daughter!"

The tray crashed onto the deck, scattering dishes everywhere. Miyr stared at him, completely ignoring the wreckage littered around her feet.

"Therefore," Vader continued vehemently, his finger stabbing at his administrator once more, "_I _will treat her as I deem fit, and _you_ will not question my decisions. See to it that guards are placed on station outside my quarters and ensure that she does not leave the room. _You _will continue to see to her basic needs without further insubordination."

He stalked out of his quarters and headed towards the hangar where his private shuttle waited for him. Irate, he thrust all thoughts of Leia and his mutinous administrator out of his mind. He was going to retrieve his son from his treacherous master, and he could ill afford to be distracted by ignorant criticisms.

Back in her little room, on the other side of a door that had not done enough to block out the sounds of the confrontation in the corridor, Leia huddled on her bunk in wide-eyed horror as Vader's shouted, unwitting revelation ricocheted through her whirling, terrified thoughts.

* * *

_Displeased_, the Emperor reflected, was a wholly inadequate description of Vader's response. Just moments ago, his aide had arrived, trembling, with a message Vader had sent to Palace Security, informing them that his shuttle would arrive momentarily and he himself would be speaking with the Emperor immediately. The message had had to be forwarded from Palace Security, as Vader had not bothered to give his master any such notification, let alone requested an appointment as was expected of him. Palpatine might have reasserted his own authority by transmitting a countermanding summons to his upstart apprentice, but it transpired that the inbound shuttle was refusing to receive any calls.

Although supremely irritated by Vader' sudden display of disrespect, the Emperor was not surprised. Perceived threats against family members were the one thing that could always be counted upon to incite Vader's most headstrong passions. To a degree he was even enjoying himself; it was not often he found himself faced with a credible challenge, and never before had his apprentice so blatantly ignored the rules.

Subtle manipulations would be wasted on the man at this point. As Palpatine had concluded earlier, it would be best to meet Vader head-on. He would demonstrate a little leniency by acceding to the demand for an immediate audience; at the same time he must not sacrifice his position of authority. Accordingly he had come to the formal throne room, which was empty but for him…and for one very important young man whom he had ordered his guards to hold in an attached side chamber.

All was in place. And, by the growing presence that loomed in the Force like a bank of black thunderheads, his irate apprentice was nearly here.

Palpatine touched the com on the armrest of his throne. The chamberlain in the outer foyer answered. "Permit Lord Vader to enter."

* * *

Vader was thoroughly annoyed to find the doors to the throne room open upon his arrival. He would have preferred to force them, thereby destroying any suggestion that he was coming with permission. The Imperial Chamberlain, who had over the course of the past several years become wondrously adept at sensing incoming homicidal wrath, scrambled obsequiously out of his way. Vader stormed inside and vented a bit of his irritation by slamming the doors shut behind his back as he barreled up the center of the throne room on a collision course with his master.

"You are welcome as always, my friend," the Emperor announced as he came within conversation range. His voice acquired a sudden edge. "Although, I trust, you will demonstrate a modicum of courtesy and extend advance notice next time to you wish to speak with me in person."

Vader did not pause or answer. He marched straight up the stairs of the dais and came to a halt mere feet away from the throne, regarding Palpatine from his superior height without bothering to kneel. "Where," he demanded, "is my son?"

He could not sense Luke, but of course that meant nothing—the boy might be shielding himself as before, or worse, the Emperor might be concealing the child's presence. In fact he almost certainly was.

Palpatine's inscrutable expression hardened. "Be careful in whom you accuse of what, my young apprentice."

Vader shifted dangerously. His hand was itching to reach for his lightsaber, but he ordered it to stay away. It was not yet time. "I make accusation where it is due," he snarled. "You have no right to take my son from me. He is _mine_."

Palpatine leaned back. "You speak of rights? Then tell me—what right had you to conceal the boy from me?"

Vader tensed. He had expected this conversation to be dangerous, but the reality was more unnerving than anticipated. "The same right," he retorted, managing to bring his voice into a calmer tone, "that you had to perpetuate the lie that his mother's death was my doing."

That did the trick. Palpatine leaned back, handily returned to the defensive. It was, after all, an arguably unforgivable offense, and he was going to have give a great deal of ground to explain it away. "My friend," he said soothingly, "I was as surprised as you no doubt were to discover that the child had survived. Clearly my information was in error."

Vader felt a brief flash of triumph. It was vanishingly rare for his master to admit any sort of mistake. Of course, he did not believe for a moment that it _had _been a mistake, and even had it been, he was not about to let the Emperor off the hook so easily. "I did not come to hear excuses," he snapped. "Return my son to me."

The Emperor's gaze hardened. "You would do well to remember respect if you expect to receive anything from me," he hissed. "And you would also do well to recall that it was you who failed to make the boy's survival known to me in the first place. Had you brought him to me at the outset, such drastic measures would not have been necessary." He curled his fingers on the armrests of the throne, allowing a moment of silence. "However," he continued magnanimously, "I understand the reason for your…dissatisfaction. Perhaps it would comfort you to know that young Skywalker has received only the best of treatment."

"I will believe that," Vader retorted, "when I have seen him myself."

Palpatine's thin lips stretched in a leering grin. "As you wish." He pressed a button on his armchair, and Vader twisted in spite of himself as someone was pushed out of a side room by the guards.

* * *

Han had yet to lay eyes on His Shriveled Dictatorness. The flunky had dragged him through several doors and corridors—including one secret passage—into a cramped little side room. On one side a big set of fancy double doors stood, and there were a couple of comfy sofas.

Oh, yeah—and _four Imperial bodyguards_.

Han had been perched on a comfy sofa for maybe half an hour of total silence, fidgeting under the impassive stares of the masked red guards. He had one looming on either side of him, while the other two blockaded the doors. Most of the Force pikes were angled in his general direction. Like the nine hells he was going to try _anything_ with these goonies. He didn't even want to breathe too hard. He figured these Imperial bodyguards must just sort of marinate in the Emperor's general evilness. Hell, probably Vader did too. That'd certainly explain why all of them were so much creepier than your average sentient being.

Suddenly the com of one of the guards buzzed. The helmeted terror in (presumably) human form glanced at it, then pressed the code into the control panel of the big fancy doors. They slid open. The guard pointed at Han with the tip of his Force pike and then through the doors. Swallowing, but not about to argue with the business end of the galaxy's most impressive electroshock weapon, Han clambered to his feet and inched his way past the guard.

Only when the door whispered shut behind him did he look at his new surroundings. At that point, he almost tried to flee straight back into the side room, Imperial stooges of doom or no. They'd let him out into the krething throne room. The ceiling was probably fifteen floors above his head, and his footsteps on the polished marble floor rang all the way up every single one of them. At one end he spotted the Emperor, looking monumentally smug in his epically-sized throne.

Then he saw who was standing next to the Emperor, and his heart jumped into his mouth, fortuitously preventing him from blurting out the only thought in his mind.

_I'm so fracked._

* * *

It took Vader a moment to recognize the person who had been brought out of the side room. Once again, unbelievably, it wasn't Luke.

It was _Han Solo_.

"Come, my young friend," Palpatine said with an expansive wave of his hand. "Your father is most anxious to speak with you."

Vader's thoughts whirled in a barely contained maelstrom as Han Solo—_Solo!_—edged his way as far as the third stair from the bottom of the dais. He stuffed his hands awkwardly in his pockets. "Um…hey…uh, Father."

Vader stared. The pieces slowly were beginning to come into rough shape. Fett had kidnapped the wrong boy, whether on purpose or by mistake—Luke, no doubt driven by his irrational compulsion to rescue anyone his father would prefer to be rid of, had chased after them at least as far as Corellia. Fett had brought Solo to the Emperor…

…Where the teenage street rat had, for once, made himself useful and played along with the misconception.

At the base of the stairs, Solo was fidgeting and eyeing both him and the Emperor nervously.

_The Force_, Vader concluded to himself with a private scowl, _has a cruel sense of humor_. Aloud, he said, "Hello…Son."

* * *

...tbc


	48. Rats in the Woodwork

A/N: I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but this will probably be the last chapter for quite awhile. The good news is that I've been able to work fairly regularly on the writing and that I've got a plan in pretty thorough detail to work from. Believe it or not, the light at the end of this 3.5-year-long tunnel is actually coming into sight. But even with a plan, wrapping up all the ends and tucking the corners and polishing the rough bits is tricky work. I'm going to need to hold back on posting until I'm very sure everything is going to mesh properly; sometimes the details of the plan need tweaking, and I can't tweak what's already posted, which can detract from the quality of the story.

So—I'd like to thank you all for sticking with me this long, and ask you to keep sticking a little bit longer. Even if you can't see it yet, know that I _am _writing! Apologies to those reviewers from last chapter whom I haven't answered yet; I'll get to thanking you individually at some point, but in the meantime know that I appreciate all of you.

* * *

Considering how flagrantly Vader had flaunted the usual bounds of authority, his master's response had been rather mild. With an additional reprimand for having hidden "Luke" from him in the first place, Palpatine had released Solo to him on the condition that both of them remain on Coruscant for the foreseeable future. Ostensibly this was so that he would have the opportunity to acquaint himself properly with the son of his "dear friend," but as Vader well knew the true purpose was to keep the boy within reach. Meanwhile he himself would doubtless be kept on a punitive leash, probably forced to attend all manner of odious political events and kowtow to Senate committees, for some time.

"_Some time_," he promised himself grimly, _will be far shorter than he expects_.

Less than a week, actually, assuming Thrawn's scheme met with no major setbacks. He prayed it did not—a week was undoubtedly the longest he would be able to tolerate masquerading as the father of Han Solo.

Having marched that infuriating individual out of Imperial Palace, into the shuttle, back to his Coruscant castle, and into his private quarters, Vader sealed the doors and spun on the boy. There were no security devices here whatsoever; he was free to vent at long last.

"Where are my children, Solo?" he bellowed.

Sullenly, Solo flung himself down atop the most convenient chair. "I don't know, dammit! It's not like I kidnapped 'em, what the hells would I know? I've been locked up here the whole time!" He waved a vague hand.

Vader clenched both fists and had to start pacing in order to contain his temper. "Tell me what happened, Solo."

"Pretendin' I'm Luke, tryin' to keep His Imperialness from makin' me do any stupid wizard mumbo-jumbo, _reading_—"

"That was an _order_, Solo!"

The teenager, Luke's attachment to whom was becoming more inexplicable by the second, finally ceased his litany of complaints and addressed the question. "All right, all right! I woke up in the middle of the night and heard something talkin' about Luke in the air ducts or somewhere, so I ran off to find him and he decided to try and draw off whoever it was while I got the twerplin—ah, the little kids—downstairs to the safe room. Whoever it was they got to me and the kids first and stunned us all, I guess. Then I came to before we took off, he knocked me back out and put me in a cryo chamber, and the next thing I know I'm waking up to Old Wrinkle Cheeks."

Vader paced even more furiously. "That is _all_ you remember?" he snarled.

Solo had the nerve to look indignant. "Well, begging your lordly pardon, but I've been kinda busy figuring out how to keep your damn boss from pinning me for a fake."

Vader leveled a disdainful stare at the boy. "I marvel that he hasn't seen the light already," he retorted. "No son of mine could possibly prove as degenerate as you."

"Knock it off," Solo groused. "I've had enough of that from His Evilness. Frackin' old corpse's trying to 'extend my intellectual scope'." He brandished a ridiculously large old-fashioned book Palpatine's aide had sent with them.

"I never thought I would see the day when the Emperor undertook a truly philanthropic enterprise," Vader returned. "One can only surmise the need was too great to ignore."

Solo suddenly broke into his impudently lopsided smirk. "Laugh it up, _Dad_. He thinks it's all your fault for ignorin' my education."

Vader snorted, heading towards the opposite wall. "Education is wasted on you, _son_."

The Corellian glared at his back. Vader turned his head sideways and leveled a forefinger. "Do not even contemplate throwing that book at me."

Solo shifted his rather suspicious grip on the book. "Like I'd bother," he shot back unconvincingly. "So how about _you_ tell _me_ where Luke is?"

"According to my last intelligence report," Vader snapped, "he was here under the Emperor's surveillance. Instead I find _you_." He loaded the final word with all the disgust he could command.

Solo just donned a satisfied smirk. "See, I'm not that stupid, am I?"

"It is hardly due to your ingenuity," Vader retorted. "The bounty hunter made an error."

"Yeah, but who coulda blown that out of the water to save his own neck and _hasn't yet_?"

"The same person," Vader rejoined, "who will be risking strangulation if he continues to demonstrate inadequate respect."

Solo got his point and snapped his mouth shut for a moment. "So you're saying you don't know either," he said more grimly.

Vader stalked even more furiously down. "The last confirmed sighting of him was on Corellia."

"Why the hell is he missing anyway?" Solo burst out. "If the bounty hunter got me he shoulda left Luke alone!"

"You seem to have made a habit out of dragging my son behind you wherever you go," Vader said acidly. "Luke chased the bounty hunter as far as Corellia, where both of them were intercepted by my agent. There was an altercation. The bounty hunter escaped with you. I do not know what happened to Luke."

"What about the twerp—the kids?" Solo sounded genuinely anxious. "They were with me."

"Presumably they were also lost during the altercation." Vader's voice was clipped. "They were last seen in the company of a dark-skinned man who fled with them into the city and has not been sighted since."

Solo sat up a little straighter. "In Coronet? Maybe I know him!"

Vader glanced at him in surprise. Might Solo be of help in tracking down his daughters after all? "Wait there," he ordered. "I have an image of the man from my agent's report files." He returned a moment later, displaying a small fuzzy picture on a projector.

Solo burst up, jabbing an enthusiastic finger at the holo. "Yeah, yeah, that's the guy—Lando Calrissian. He knows me and Luke. I betcha anything Luke recruited him to help out."

"Lando Calrissian," Vader repeated. Excitement flashed through his veins. At last he had something to go on! He made a mental note to forward the name to Baranne.

"He's a good guy," Solo added. "He ain't gonna hurt 'em."

"I am not about to rely on your judgment as to what qualities constitute a suitable caretaker for small children," Vader snapped, but secretly he felt relieved to know the man had at least a somewhat decent reputation.

"Oh, yeah," Solo grumbled, slouching yet more ingloriously in the chair, "'cause you're so great with kids yourself and all."

"If you do not cease your complaints," Vader informed him, "you will find out just how unpleasant a parent I can be, _Son_. We will, after all, be continuing in those roles for the foreseeable future." He was not about to entrust the fate of a coup plot to an indiscreet Corellian teenager.

Solo threw his head back with a groan. "Stars, I don't _believe _this!"

"Sit up," Vader barked. "No son of mine slouches over furniture like a Hutt."

Solo snickered. "I happen to know a son of yours who does."

"I stand corrected," Vader said icily. "_You_, while masquerading as my son, do not slouch over furniture like a Hutt." Mentally, he added "posture" to the list of topics on which he planned to lecture Luke once he found the boy.

"Or what?" Solo snorted. "You'll throw me, your dearly beloved son, off the top of the palace?"

"Certainly not," Vader said pleasantly. "Out of my great concern that you, my dearly beloved son, receive the best instruction possible, I'll simply return you to the Emperor's educational discretion."

Solo jerked upright hastily.

Vader clasped his hands triumphantly behind his back. "That is what I thought."

* * *

With a long, satisfied groan, Wedge Antilles collapsed back on his bunk. Life at Bravo Base on Dantooine was utopian compared to the last month he'd spent on deployment. Since arriving with the Solo brothers several months ago he'd been assigned to a half-squad of X-wings, which was based on Dantooine but which Dodonna regularly sent out with the corvettes on hit-and-run supply raids around the sector. You never knew when there would be a nerve-wracking run-in with another manifestation of Imperial might—usually in the form of a lone patrol cruiser, but sometimes in that of an all-out Destroyer complete with TIE squads. Besides, the corvettes were cramped for space to the point where usually he had to sleep in his cockpit.

The task force had just returned to Dantooine maybe two hours ago, and after they'd finished reporting in, Wedge made a beeline for his bunk in hopes of a long, satisfying, and fully horizontal sleep. But as exhausted as he was, he hadn't even managed to doze off before somebody was hammering on the door.

"Shaddupawreddy," whined Jek Porkins, who inhabited the bottom half of Wedge's bunk. On the other side of the room, Zev Senesca vented his resentment by lobbing a boot at the hatch.

The disturber of their peace was undeterred. The hatch jerked open, admitting the imposing figure of Commander Dreis. "Up and at 'em, boys," he ordered.

"Aw, fer the luvva Hutt-spit, give us a break already, sir," Zev moaned, flinging an arm over his eyes.

"Not my orders, Senesca," Commander Dreis said. "We've got a base-wide briefing in ten minutes. Rumor around the hangar is the brass have something in the works."

All three pilots jolted out of their bunks. Wedge felt a rush of excitement go straight to his head. "What kind of something, sir?"

Dreis grinned. "Now don't hold me to this, boys, but I heard a tech say something involving the words 'coordinated mass offensive,' 'liquidate,' and 'Palpatine.'"

They were out the door in less than a heartbeat.

* * *

Night was weighing dark over the leaves and thick scents of the forest as the warrior crept silently to the place that had been chosen for the meeting. It was a dangerous thing to do, for if the white-shelled enemies should find him, only two outcomes would be possible. Either he would be granted the honor of a glorious death in battle against the oppressors of his people, or the enemy would overpower him and send him away in chains, as they had already sent so many others, away into the stars. But the warrior was prepared to face these dangers, for the sake of his wife and of his young son, and so he had made his way.

Several others were already there when he arrived. They stood in a loose circle in the darkness of a glen, far in the lowest branches of the trees, dangerously close to the surface of the planet where the enemies would fear to tread without heavy weaponry.

_It is good that you have come, _growled their leader as the last of the warriors joined the circle. _We have received a communication from the free humans of Alderaan. They desire that we become battle-brothers with them._

A tangible wave of enthusiasm rolled around the circle. _And what is the battle that they wish to fight? _someone asked.

_It is a great battle, _rumbled the leader, _for the fate of all free races of the galaxy. And the chief of the humans of Alderaan has honored us with a glorious task in this battle, if we are willing to take the great danger and challenge upon ourselves._

Roars of approval poured forth as the leader described the task. _We must leave quickly, _he added. _Only by swiftness will our battle-brothers and their ally the Admiral Thrawn take the oppressor by surprise._

_We will not fail them, _Chewbacca responded fiercely.

* * *

Mara Jade would not in ten thousand years have admitted it to anybody, but she was terribly, terribly excited. Her stealth trainer had given her an actual mission! That was to say, he always gave her assignments around Imperial Palace to practice the things he was teaching her—slip this into Governor So-and-so's cocktail, snap a holo of Princess Blah-de-blah in her underwear, steal a file out of a restricted archive—but this time she was going _outside_ the Palace. On her own! And not to some down-and-out dump, either. No sir, her mission was to break into Darth Vader's castle unnoticed and retrieve a specific Fleet document from his classified archive. Finally, doing something that was really useful!

And dangerous, too—Vader wouldn't do anything serious to her, because he knew exactly who she was; but his men didn't know, and they might shoot. So she was taking a real risk for once, which was probably the chief reason for her excitement.

She was nervous, of course—it was her first mission, who wouldn't be?—but not really worried. She'd stolen secret plans of the castle which the Emperor kept in his private files (you could find plans in the public files too, but of course those were largely fakes), and had identified a concealed passage that would take her safely from the lower service levels up to the level of the archive. There didn't seem to be any holocams in the passage, so there was no reason for anybody to notice her for most of the trip.

There was also no reason for anybody to notice her on the _way_ to Vader's castle, for Mara Jade was presently hidden beneath a very thick layer of garbage in the cargo hold of a trash collection droid. The vast amount of organic waste ought to prevent her from being noticed by entrance scanners; plus the droid would stop in nearly the area where the secret passage began. It was a rather brilliant scheme, if she did say so herself. Tightening the strap of her breath mask a little more—it helped, but it wasn't _quite _enough to block out the torrid stench—she firmly told herself to ignore whatever that slimy thing against her ear was and waited for the droid to reach their destination.

* * *

By the time Ferus had worked his way up to the level of the castle which housed Vader's personal quarters, he had had so much practice at imitating the swarms of Imperial officers around him that he no longer harbored any doubts about his ability to go unnoticed among their numbers. Now his whole mind was free to fret about nothing but Vader, the little Princess, and the still-missing Luke Solo, not to mention the fact that he was about a week away from attempting to take on at least one very nasty Sith Lord in battle. Telling himself that he had another very nasty Sith Lord on his side of the fight was in no way reassuring, since there was every reason to expect Vader would turn on him the moment their mutual enemy was eliminated.

As a matter of fact, it was virtually certain that he would. More importantly, nothing would remain to prevent Vader from taking vengeance on the Organas for their part in concealing Luke Solo from him. And most terribly of all, Princess Leia would be on the fast track to either an early grave or, more likely and much worse, a Sith apprenticeship. But there didn't seem to be much Ferus Olin could do about it. If he didn't cooperate, Leia and Luke Solo were still at the mercy of the Sith, the galaxy was still subjected to a viciously repressive government, and Vader would no doubt find some heinous way to inflict his vengeance on the Organas. It was impossible that Ferus could take on both Sith at once; without any backup, his best hope was to team up with Vader long enough to finish off the Emperor and then pray that he could somehow outlast Vader after that.

Of course, this was assuming that they figured out a way to _get _to the Emperor. While pondering his way through all these things on the silent shuttle ride to the planet, certain problematic facts concerning the planned ambush had presented themselves. He could only assume Vader had ordered him up to his personal quarters in order to discuss them.

He presented his fabricated ID to the stormtrooper on duty outside the door and was promptly admitted. At first glance he thought that no one was inside the foyer; at second glance he was flabbergasted to discover a lanky dark-haired teenager collapsed in the corner, with an arm thrown over his eyes, his feet kicked up against the wall, and a ridiculously gigantic book crumpled on his chest.

Before Ferus could make more than one guess as to why the boy would be there—the only one he managed went something like _undercover agent on guard duty_—Vader marched in from one of the interior rooms and jerked the teenager upright with a wave of his hand. "Out," he ordered, ignoring the startled noise of protest from the youngster. Sullenly the young man shrugged his shirt and stalked off, not without making a nasty face at the Sith behind his back. The door sealed behind him.

"Who's he?" Ferus asked mildly, crossing his arms.

"No one with whom you need be concerned, Jedi," Vader retorted. "There are more important matters which ought to occupy your thoughts."

"Oh, there are," Ferus answered him, peeling the horrid officer's cap off his head. "Most of them having to do with how in the name of the Force you expect to pull this thing off practically."

"I assume you are referring to the confrontation itself."

Ferus shot him Master Tachi's _what-else-would-I-be-talking-about _look in order to stop himself from contemplating the fact that he was now discussing battle strategy with the galaxy's premier Jedi-killer. "My chief value in the fight is going to be the element of surprise," he began. "Your ace. And we both know the ace is no good if the opponent sees it coming."

"Correct." Vader began to pace, hands clasped behind his cape. With a sick wrench in his belly, Ferus wondered whether he'd had similar conversations discussing the capture and murder of Jedi. Whether other Jedi had ever been forced to collaborate with him in those killings… "The Emperor will most likely dismiss his guards if he believes that I have come alone. If you enter openly with me, you will arouse suspicion and the guards will remain."

"I think I can safely assume that taking on the guards _and _a Sith Lord is out of the question?" Ferus asked dryly.

"The possibility of success would be far slimmer," Vader hedged. Ferus' gaze sharpened. Apparently, Lord Vader was a tad too vain to admit that he simply couldn't do it. That was a weakness he might manage to exploit, and Ferus quickly filed the observation away for future reference. It quite reminded him of Anakin Skywalker, but it was so absurd to waste brain cells remembering that dead rival of his youth at a time like this that Ferus dismissed the thought instantly.

"So my question is," he continued, "how, exactly, am I supposed to get into the throne room unnoticed?"

Vader waved a finger, switching on a corner projector to display a blueprint of Imperial Palace. It was enlarged to display the throne room complex in detail. "There are two entrances to the room. The Emperor enters by this side entrance; everyone else through the main entrance."

Ferus noted them. The side entrance was set into the left wall of the room, and led into a smaller waiting room. "Where does this room lead to?"

"The Emperor's personal quarters. The area is heavily reinforced and inaccessible save by this entrance and by the Emperor's personal hangar. It will not be possible for me to give you a pass through security at the hangar entrance. The main entrance therefore is the only option available."

"That's no good," Ferus said. "If I come in with you, the guards stay. If I come in after you, the guards see me and notify the Emperor, assuming they don't attack me on the spot. If you try to put me on the approved roster, the Emperor will know about it and wonder who I am and why you want me to have access. If I have to fight my way through, we lose the element of sur—"

"I am perfectly capable of assessing the difficulties of the situation," Vader seethed, stabbing a finger at him. Ferus shut up. "It is possible that there are secret entrances available. Several have been built into the rest of the palace and he may have included one to the throne room for the use of his secret agents. If there are such passages, I am unaware of their location; but it is possible that I can obtain that information from one of those agents."

"It's _possible_?" Ferus scowled. "Why don't you go find out?"

Vader elected to ignore the comment in favor of cracking his metaphorical whip a little. "In your documents you will find directions to a concealed passage which will take you to a non-inhabited section of this castle. Remain there until I inform you otherwise." Casually he handed Ferus his lightsaber. "You may, of course, attempt to quit the system if you like. Kindly remember the Princess will remain a guest aboard my ship if you do—for a brief time, at least."

Ferus took the familiar hilt and accompanying threat with a humorless, tight smile. Whether Jedi were supposed to know hate or not, he detested this man, and that was a fact. Even so, he felt better with his lightsaber in his hand. Less alone.

Vader gestured brusquely towards the door and swept off to some other part of his quarters. Ferus flipped through the documents in his pocket until he found a list of directions. They led him down a couple of levels, past the entrance to the file archives, along a series of back halls and finally into a locked supply closet. The passcode was included. He stepped in and pressed the passcode again into what appeared to be a timecard terminal set into the wall for maintenance workers. A panel of durasteel slid aside, revealing the hatch of a tiny turbolift just big enough for one. He pressed the key to summon it from downstairs, then leaned against the wall and waited, turning the hilt of his lightsaber over in his hands and inspecting it for any scratches it might have sustained since leaving his person, as any affectionate warrior would.

That proved to be a fairly major mistake.

* * *

Miyr waited until Lord Vader had left the _Executor_, then a little longer. When she was quite sure he was not going to perform an about-face, she set her jaw and broke at least a dozen major rules by hacking the locks to Lord Vader's hyperbaric chamber, hacking the power-up codes to his personal communications array, and stealing Navy Holonet bandwidth to transmit an unauthorized call to a private com line. Then, while said call was in the process of connecting across interstellar distances, she committed a crime so outrageous it hadn't even occurred to her employer to forbid it—she hacked the code to the room's supply closet and retrieved from therein Lord Vader's spare respirator, vocabulator, mask, and helmet. Amazingly, her hands did not shudder as she assembled all of this on her own person.

_I am going to be fired_, she reflected calmly as she set the transmission zone to face-only, _and that's if I win the metaphorical lottery. _

"Captain Landre speaking," said the voice on the other end of the line.

"Captain Landre," she said, and despite knowing it was coming she was thoroughly startled to hear the vocabulator boom the words out in spine-shivering basso profundo. Collecting her wits, she continued, "Intelligence has reached me which suggests that the Rebel forces may be planning a mass attack of an unknown nature within the week. Additional forces may be required to deal with this threat, but it will not be feasible to draw them from major defense objectives. Prepare your troops and deploy with the task force to the Coruscant sector."

Landre's voice sharpened. "Of course, my lord."

"Do not proceed to the Coruscant system itself," she ordered, "but drop the task force out of hyperspace on the outskirts of the Borleias system and await further orders. Be prepared for an emergency hyperspace jump and remain at general quarters."

"Immediately, my lord!" Landre sounded very eager indeed. Miyr managed a reasonably curt nod, despite the weight of the helmet and the fact that the respirator was set to operate for a body considerably larger than hers and was almost knocking her out with the abundance of oxygen it was forcing into her lungs. Quickly she cut the transmission and ripped the mask off. She had to lie down for a bit on the floor of the hyperbaric chamber to recover from the oxygen overload, which gave her plenty of time to reflect on what she'd just done.

It was quite plain that _something_ was going down—something involving considerably more than three missing children. Lord Vader had been using his own daughter to blackmail a Jedi into assisting him with some scheme or other; and there couldn't be very many projects Vader would be willing to collaborate on with a Jedi. In fact, she could think of only one enemy they held in common.

If the Emperor got wind of this scheme—as was by no means improbable—he had a sizeable system fleet to summon to his defense, whereas Lord Vader could count only on the _Executor_. This ship was formidable but far from invincible; the fleet stationed at the capital system would be able to overpower the craft. Should the Emperor's allies seize the _Executor_, it was only a matter of time before Leia was discovered. Landre's task force from Vjun was not big enough to even the _Executor_'s odds against the capital fleet, but it might be big enough to shoot its way through, retrieve Leia, and race back out of the system with her. Taking care of Lord Vader's children was her job and she intended to do it, even if her employer killed her for it… Besides that, it gave Landre a chance to clear his name with Lord Vader; the man had only avoided liquidation this long due to an extraordinary number of distractions. He did not deserve to die over what had happened at Bast Castle.

She closed her eyes, drew another shallow breath, and hoped that she wouldn't be killed in his place.

* * *

Captain Landre wasted not a moment in preparing Bast Castle's mobile task force for deployment. He would not have even if he hadn't been in such immense disfavor with Lord Vader, but the knowledge that he'd just been given a chance to jailbreak out of Death Row probably served to sharpen the already-keen edge of his efficiency. The other officers of the task force, who had also despaired of their necks after the recent break-in fiasco, caught the scent of hope on the air too. The task force's standing orders dictated that it should be prepared for emergency deployment within two hours at all times; they hypered out of system in a little less than one-and-a-half.

In the blaze of excitement and commotion, the intoxicating sense that perhaps all of them might have futures yet, few of the men wondered what brewing crisis could be so important that Vader would resort to calling up reinforcements located so far from Coruscant. Even fewer inferred that secrets might be afoot. Only in a single, black thought that skittered through the back of Captain Landre's over-occupied brain did anybody ponder what might happen should they let Lord Vader's possible secrets out of the bag.

And not in even Landre's worst nightmares did he suspect that somebody who was not supposed to be privy to encrypted military conversations between himself and the commander of the Imperial Navy had already overhead the transmission.

* * *

tbc…


	49. Luck of the Jedi

A/N: And you thought I was never going to post anything ever again, didn't you?

This story has, admittedly, been more or less on the shelf for the last few months. Blame it on a cross-continental move, two job searches, and my college loans. I know I do. Anyway, I finally got back to work on it this past week or so and was able to make respectable headway. I've now got a scene-by-scene outline of the entire remainder of the fic, from which I estimate I've got perhaps 60 to 100 pages left to go. As proof that I am in fact still pursuing this thing, I wish to present two things:

1) The target completion date. My goal is to have this fic completely written (though perhaps not completely posted) by August 7th, which would be the four-year anniversary.

2) This chapter, which is the longest I've posted in ages.

Thanks for being so patient with me, guys! Hope you enjoy this one.

* * *

The first turbolift dead-ended in a cramped hallway, lit by a single dismal row of fluorescent glowpanels, barely more than six feet high and scarcely wide enough for two grown men to sidle past each other. Ferus covered its dreary length at an easy pace. Reaching the hatch to the next turbolift at its end, he pressed the button to summon it. Then he stepped back and switched on his lightsaber to complete his inspection of the weapon. Turning carefully in the cramped quarters, he made a couple test swings with the blade. He barely heard the turbolift doors hiss open behind his back.

He _did _hear somebody gasp in surprise.

Spinning so fast it nearly gave him vertigo, he saw a small redheaded girl frozen halfway out of the turbolift. Neither of them moved for several heartbeats. The lightsaber kept humming to itself.

"You're a—a—" she stammered.

She knew. Almost thirteen years of life as a fugitive from Order 66 did his thinking for him. Before she could retreat and send the turbolift rocketing away, Ferus lunged forward and clubbed the back of her head with the hilt of his lightsaber. The girl collapsed unconscious on the floor.

Now what?

* * *

Vader hadn't even gotten his call through to Baranne before his private com pinged for his attention. Scowling to himself, he canceled the call to see who it was. The incoming number corresponded to the com unit he had given to Ferus Olin.

"What is it?" he barked into the speaker.

"I'm back in your foyer," said the Jedi, sounding as inscrutable as ever. "With a guest."

Vader stormed back to the foyer, swearing with every step to punish Olin for his presumption as soon as he didn't need the man healthy any longer. His resolve sputtered out when he saw Olin carrying the limp form of a redheaded girl in a jumpsuit.

"Apparently your secret passages aren't so secret after all," the Jedi remarked. "Another person you've blackmailed into helping you, or somebody else?"

Vader briskly swept the hair out of the girl's face. As he'd thought. "She is an agent of the Emperor," he informed Olin.

"They're making them younger every year," Olin muttered under his breath. "Well, she saw this"—he nodded at the lightsaber on his belt—"so we've got a problem."

"No," Vader said suddenly. "We have a solution."

Olin raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question.

"The girl is an agent of Palpatine and therefore has access to the secret passages of Imperial Palace," Vader said. "If we tag her with a tracking device we will be able to identify those passages and possibly discover a secret route into the throne room."

"An excellent idea," Olin said mildly, "except for the part where we let her go running back to Palpatine with the breaking news that Darth Vader has a Jedi skulking around his castle."

Vader waved a hand dismissively. "I will modify the girl's memory."

Olin's eyebrows cinched up angrily; doubtless his Jedi scruples did not approve of the suggestion. But just as quickly he realized that he had little to no say in the matter; the girl was in Vader's hands and Olin had no way to take her out of them short of simply attempting to run away while carrying her over his shoulder. That, of course, would not succeed—and even if by some miracle it did, he would still have left behind the little Princess he was so anxious to rescue. Vader watched the Jedi grimly decide in favor of the Princess. Slowly, obviously reluctant, Olin set the girl—Mara, he thought her name was—down on the sofa of the foyer.

"After I have done so," Vader continued, "_you_ will return her to the spot where you found her and allow her to regain consciousness. I shall permit her to proceed with whatever mission she was tasked, and then you shall follow her trail back to Imperial Palace."

"This is so stupid it might actually work," Olin muttered.

* * *

This most recent case had been a headache of epic proportions for Agent Baranne, as it seemed any investigation involving Luke Skywalker inevitably would be. Since the debacle on Corellia, he'd made no progress in tracking either the slippery teenager or his toddling compatriots. But that had been before the call from Lord Vader a few hours ago. Now, Baranne had another name.

"Lando Calrissian," he muttered to himself for the umpteenth time. According to Lord Vader, that was the full name of the information broker he'd seen in the cantina and whom eyewitnesses claimed had escaped with the twin girls. There were several thousand people by the name of Calrissian in the galaxy, but thank the stars only one of them was also named Lando. Armed with this information, Baranne had begun attempting to trace the man. So far he hadn't been able to track his movements after the showdown at the hangar, but he _had _been able to piece together quite a bit of his past history. It seemed the guy was something of a professional entrepreneur with a habit of starting and losing businesses, wending around systems as his luck held out, and working the information and weapons markets on the side. Jabba had a respectable-sized bounty out for the man, which one of his Nar Shaddaa sources asserted was because the broker had stolen a Sienar drive from the Hutt's warehouse. The serial number of the unit, he had already noticed, was the same one on the hyperdrive of the freighter in which he'd captured Luke Skywalker and Han Solo.

Apparently Calrissian's involvement was more extensive than he'd first thought.

Sifting through all of the records was going to take quite a lot of time; Calrissian was a sneaky sort, as was only fitting for an information broker. Baranne stirred sugar into his caf as he surveyed the analysis programs running on his computers, grey eyes steel-bright with relish. He enjoyed challenges like this. Calrissian was good, but Baranne was better. Somewhere in this disparate mass of information lurked enough clues to find the man. Perhaps it was a ship registration, perhaps a potential accomplice, maybe even a traceable com number.

Whatever the lead was, Baranne was going to find it. He sipped languidly at his caf, razor stare never leaving the screen, and allowed himself to feel optimistic for the first time that week.

* * *

Lando Calrissian liked to consider himself a businessman of suave skill, unconstrained imagination, and broad scope. Though he'd never asserted so out loud—at least, not to his memory, but he was willing to allow he might have muttered something to similar effect once when he was much younger and roaring drunk—he prided himself on the idea that there was no profitable enterprise known in the Empire at which Lando Calrissian was not prepared to try his hand. Any business, according to his traditional philosophy, could be _his _business. Also according to his traditional philosophy, he enjoyed boundless confidence that he could leap into any business and turn a handsome profit.

But since the Great Corellian Blunder, as he'd taken to remembering the wild melee on the Coronet Strip, Lando Calrissian's traditional philosophy had been forced to undergo a modification. There was, in point of absolute fact, one business at which he had not, did not, nor conceivably ever would excel…

…Babysitting.

Considering the average galactic age of money-making babysitters was something like twelve standard years, this was a humiliating revelation. Lounging on his sickbed and doing his best to corral the blithe antics of his younger two charges, Lando had exactly two consolations available. Firstly, no other babysitter in the galaxy was currently supervising the mildly bipolar brood of a villainous Sith Lord who also happened to be a galactic dictator. Secondly, he could lean on Luke to back him up when their far more temperamental parent eventually stormed onto the scene.

Monetary compensation might have made a good third consolation, but right now Lando was just angling to get out of this nightmare with all appendages and essential biological functions intact.

It went without saying that a man stuck in a bunk with a leg in crude bacta wrap and no company but morbid thoughts—and a band of youngsters whose mischievousness would do their tyrannical father proud—quickly developed a cranky mood. Sara and Sandra were quite unperturbed by his occasional glowers and remained as cheerful and bouncy as ever. The only exception was when they got fixated once again on the question of when they were going to see "Dadda," but Luke capably fielded those questions and the accompanying tearful outbursts.

Generally speaking, Lando had always thought of their older brother as a reasonably cheerful sort too. But since they'd arrived back at the ship Luke's energy seemed to have soured. Being cooped up in the ship while all the action was going down elsewhere was obviously eating away at the kid. Lando tried to keep his attention away from the question of Han Solo, mostly by ordering him to play with the girls so they stayed under control.

That sure as the nine hells wasn't going to work for long.

* * *

"Anakin," Padmé breathed, "something wonderful has happened. I'm pregnant!"

A swollen bubble of emotions filled him almost to bursting, ranging anywhere from awful fear to resent to total bright shock to enthusiasm, but he felt he expressed the most prominent of them by answering, "That's wonderful!"

"Oh, I'm so glad you think so," Padmé sighed in relief, "because there's something I've been trying to work up the nerve to tell you for positively years now."

"What's that, my love?"

"Well," Padmé said regretfully, "it's just that this isn't the first time."

He paused and eyed her, quizzical. "What do you mean, angel?"

"Remember when you and Obi-Wan went on a year-long tour of galacti-golf hotspots?"

_Since when do I play galacti-golf?_ muttered a very puzzled and somewhat distant bit of his brain, but he dismissed the flickering thought. He couldn't seem to remember the details of that trip but obviously, he'd been on it. "Of course," he said with brimming confidence, "the galacti-golf trip. What about it?"

"Well, I'm very sorry, dear, but you weren't there and I was just so afraid that the Chancellor would steal the poor dear," Padmé fretted, wringing her hands, "so I had to hide him with Lando Calrissian. Anyway, the upshot is, we've already got a son."

"We do?" he squeaked.

"Yes, and I think it's time the two of you met."

Then from behind one of the pillars a lanky seventeen-year-old swaggered out, wearing a cocky lopsided smile and raggedy clothes. "Hi, Dad," said Han Solo. "Looks like I really _am _your son after all!"

Darth Vader jolted upright in his hyperbaric chamber with an almighty yell and hammered his head into the side of the domed wall. As he was not wearing his helmet, this hurt considerably. Wheezing, he sank back down. Under normal circumstances he'd have been supremely irritated, but at the moment he gratefully welcomed any reality wherein Han Solo was _not _his son, regardless of whatever pain said reality might otherwise entail.

Glancing to the side, he discovered it had been more than the nightmare which had disrupted him. The alert light of his com unit was blipping cheerfully, informing him that he had a private interstellar call waiting. He donned his mask and helmet before accepting. It was Baranne.

"I apologize for disturbing you, my lord," he said, "but I think I've found a solid lead on the case."

The sudden surge of anticipation and hope washed away the petty anxieties of his bizarre nightmare. "What have you found?"

"I don't have any leads on Skywalker," Baranne told him, "but I've been sifting through all the documentation I could recover on Lando Calrissian. By cross-referencing serial numbers of the parts from several sales records with repair workshop documents, I was able to recover identifying information for a ship belonging to Calrissian. It's a midsize personal craft, registered as the _Lady Luck_. I'm transmitting you her profile information right now. Corellian Security documented the craft's departure from Coronet less than twelve hours after Calrissian fled the Strip with the younger two targets. I subsequently took the liberty of hacking into the Imperial Ministry of Transportation's interstellar traffic monitor archives. The _Lady Luck_'s hyperspace exit point was 00-0-01-2-02."

Vader's respirator almost skipped a beat. He knew those coordinates. They were the point at which the Corellian Trade Route traffic dropped into the Coruscant system!

"The _Lady Luck_ subsequently proceeded to Suborbital Entry Checkpoint A-11," Baranne continued, "where Coruscant Space Control issued her clearance to land in Docking Zone Twelve, North Aldray District. There is no record indicating that the _Lady Luck _has left the Coruscant system since that time, which would have been a little over one day ago."

"Well done, Agent Baranne," Vader said, barely managing to wrench his excitement under control.

"With your permission, my lord, I'll come straightaway to Coruscant to pursue my investigation."

"Do so," Vader ordered, then cut the connection. With any luck, he'd have his daughters safely in hand before Baranne ever reached the capital system. Quickly he put through a call to the officer in command of security operations in the North Aldray District and forwarded the information for the _Lady Luck _and a description Solo had provided of Calrissian, with orders to perform a district-wide covert search. It was not until he had finished the call that he paused to wonder why Calrissian should have brought his daughters to Coruscant.

Considering the reason Han Solo had been brought to this planet, Vader had a sinking feeling he might know the answer.

If Palpatine had Sara and Sandra in his clutches as well—all this time, had said _nothing_ to him, had actually released Solo to him in order to keep him from suspecting that the younger children were also here—the Corellians would have to invent a tenth hell just for that son of a Hutt.

* * *

If Mara Jade had been a somewhat older and more experienced person, she would have developed an acute case of paranoia as her mission progressed. She had been baffled to wake up in the middle of part of the secret passage and remember that a loose glowpanel had fallen on her head and apparently knocked her out for a short while. But that was the extent of her bad luck. Nobody was nearby when she emerged from the false janitor's closet on the level of the file archives. She'd been sure her timing would be screwed after having wasted untold unconscious minutes, but the stormtrooper patrol was running late and she didn't encounter it. Hacking her way into the archives was laughably easy, especially considering that—in a total breach of security—no officer was on duty inside. Probably the guy had run out to a 'fresher or something. He'd even left his workstation on for her; all she had to do was hack his access password.

If it hadn't been her first mission, she'd have known for certain that Someone Was On To Her. As it was she finished the trip in high spirits, congratulating herself on her skill and luck.

It certainly did not cross her mind that somebody might, at some point, have planted a tracking patch inside her ear canal.

* * *

Ferus Olin had to admit that Vader's tracking patch was rather an ingenious device. Unlike virtually every other such device, this patch was non-powered and did not rely on transmission. Instead, if he'd understood the explanation properly, it slowly released a microscopic stream of particles of some sort of miniature alien fungus. The little particles would linger in the air harmlessly and invisibly. Meanwhile, Ferus had been equipped with a wrist-banded device that would register the presence of said particles. Basically, he was following a very high-tech invisible trail of bread crumbs, totally undetectable by the security arrangements at Imperial Palace.

Having let her get a good head start, Ferus emerged from his hiding place (inside a two-ton detergent powder container in a laundry facility storage room) and went to the entrance of the secret passage to pick up her trail. The patch worked perfectly; he had no trouble following the distinct particle trail. It led him a circuitous, cam-avoiding route to a power maintenance hatch. She'd apparently known the code. Ferus sliced the lock open with a quick flash of his lightsaber and pursued her trail through the maze of energy core access walkways that waited beyond the hatch. Finally his pursuit came to a halt at a wall, blank except for a meter-square electrical access panel set into it eight meters up.

He checked his position on the wrist device. According to the location system he was now in the guts of Imperial Palace. He looped the immediate area just to make sure his quarry hadn't wandered off elsewhere. Then he scowled at the access panel. Clearly the panel was a dummy, concealing the entrance to some sort of passage. The girl had no doubt leapt straight up with the benefit of the Force. If Ferus did the same he risked drawing the Emperor's attention to the fact that somebody unfamiliar was up to no good in his basement.

He glared at the panel once more, then switched the particle sensor to standby and slipped away in search of some sort of ladder.

* * *

"Why is it," Obi-Wan Kenobi inquired mildly as he caused his image to rematerialize, "that despite all the beautiful places there are in the galaxy, and despite all the traveling I have done, I rarely see anything more aesthetically impressive than superstructure sewer systems?"

Yoda snickered at his ethereal companion. He had spent a great many hours seeking out the least noticeable route into the monolithic Imperial Palace. It had involved a number of unorthodox twists and turns, all of them through the most unappetizing selections of Coruscant scenery imaginable. At the moment he was ambling down a cramped subsidiary sewage pipe, which was just barely high enough for him to walk upright. Happily, it was not an overused sewage pipe, but the two inches of nasty sludge on the bottom and the crusted dry stuff on the walls were best left uncontemplated. Yoda's firmly wrinkled nostrils filled Obi-Wan with gratitude for the fact that, no longer being corporeal, he was spared whatever unholy stench polluted the air.

"A complaint is this, young Obi-Wan?" the aged master asked impishly.

"I would consider it a pointed observation," Obi-Wan answered.

"And come to me simply to make this observation, have you?" Yoda scrabbled up the next bend in the pipe and proceeded toward the maintenance hatch that should be coming up shortly overhead.

"Not at all," Obi-Wan told him. "I was going to warn you that there is someone else approaching your hatch."

"Think I did not sense this, do you?" Yoda returned testily. "Old I may be, but failed these eyes have not!"

"I was going to add," Obi-Wan continued with the dignified patience he had acquired while studying with Qui-Gon and perfected while training Anakin, "that this person is a Jedi."

Yoda paused at that. "Certain of this, are you?"

"Indubitably."

* * *

Ferus had stolen through at least a dozen hatches marked "Maintenance" in the last half hour, the whole time convinced that some stupid little repair droid was going to spot him and find within its circuits sufficient ingenuity to hare off and warn its supervisor. He had yet to find a ladder, or indeed anything with enough height and sturdiness to get him within reach of the access panel. He was starting to think he would just have to take the risk and levitate himself up. He doubted there would be enough time to dash back to Vader's castle and find something; the particle trail would not linger forever. It had to start dispersing before long, and then he'd be screwed.

_Whose brilliant idea was it, _he asked himself sourly,_ to make the lives and fates of billions of beings contingent on whether or not a third-rate Jedi dropout could find a krething ladder?_

He leaned around a corner and scanned the next corridor quickly before darting across and slipping inside the last maintenance hatch in this section of the building. He could only pray that the assistance he needed was inside. He closed the hatch and turned to survey the new surroundings. It was a small, narrow room, lit by industrial glowpanels. Racks of tools lined one wall, none of them suitable for scaling walls. The other side was swallowed up by an exposed section of sewage piping. It looked to be one of the system's bigger lines, over a meter in diameter.

He had just turned around to leave, cursing fate, when an ominous creak arrested him in his tracks. He spun to see the access hatch on top of the giant pipe swing open. Before his astonished eyes, an elfin, grimy green face poked out, topped with large triangular ears and a sparse tuft of white hair.

"Good it is to see you again, Ferus Olin," said Master Yoda cheerfully.

Ferus stared for a long, silent second. His body sagged back against the wall. "_Master Yoda?_"

Yoda, by way of answer, bounded like the spry old creature he was out of the hole and deposited himself on the floor in front of Ferus, regarding the much younger Jedi with a wide smile. "Good it is to meet a fellow Jedi," he reiterated. "Too long has it been, young Padawan."

"What are you doing here, Master?" A back bit of Ferus' brain matter was complaining that this was not the proper way to address a Master, but the rest of it was too dumbfounded to remember what _was _the proper way. To think that this whole fiasco had started with trying to find Yoda—and only now, after Ferus had completely forgotten what he was looking for…

"Ask you the same, I might," said Yoda. "The place where one expects to find Jedi, this is not."

"You weren't on Dagobah," Ferus rasped, not without resent. If Yoda had been on Dagobah when he came with Leia, neither of them would have wound up in Vader's clutches.

"Pursuing a child, I am," Yoda said.

"Would I be correct in guessing his name is Luke Solo?"

Yoda regarded him more thoughtfully. "Know of young Luke you do?"

Ferus found himself ranting out his entire story—how the Organas had contacted him to take their Force-sensitive daughter to the safety of Dagobah, Leia's explanation of the Solo brothers and of her dreams, their journey to Vjun in search of the boys and Yoda, and the subsequent disasters. "Vader has Leia now," he said, "but where Luke Solo is I can't say."

"Safe, young Skywalker is," Yoda answered. "Correct you were in tracing my trail to Vjun. Unfortunate it is that we did not meet there. Spared much trouble, we would have been."

Ferus didn't hear anything past the first sentence. "Master? Did you say _Skywalker_?"

"His name, that is," Yoda agreed firmly. "Luke Skywalker. Anakin's son the boy is."

"Well," Ferus said after a very long pause. "That certainly explains a lot."

"His twin sister, Leia Organa is," Yoda added.

Ferus could only be half-surprised. The enormity of Leia's sensitivity was so unlike any other Jedi and so much like Anakin Skywalker that it was a wonder he hadn't suspected the truth at the outset. How in the galaxy the siblings had wound up where they presently were, Ferus Olin could not begin to guess, except to assume that Yoda had obviously orchestrated part of it. "Then you're here to rescue Leia?"

"Know the girl was here, I did not," Yoda said grimly. "For Han Solo I came. A friend of young Luke's, the boy is. A prisoner of the Emperor."

Something clicked in Ferus' memory. "A bit lanky, dark hair and eyes?"

Yoda nodded.

"I've seen him. He's with Vader, not the Emperor."

"Think that Han Solo is young Skywalker, the Emperor does," Yoda told him. "Perhaps given him back to Vader he has, but under his surveillance the boy certainly remains."

"There's a chance I could get to him," Ferus mused, "but I don't want to think what Vader might do to Leia if I did."

"And know where Leia is, do you?"

"I think she's still on the _Executor_."

Yoda paced grimly across the little room, unperturbed by the sewer grime clinging to his robes and triclawed feet. "Too far separated the children are. Retrieve both of them we cannot. And linger with young Skywalker here on Coruscant, I cannot."

"There's another way to do this," Ferus murmured after a moment. "The children might be too far apart…but the Sith are both right here."

"Suggest that we attack the Sith, you do?" Yoda demanded. "The way of the Jedi, assassination is not."

"I'm not the one who suggested it. Vader is planning to overthrow the Emperor." Ferus felt compelled to whisper although there was little chance of their being overhead. "He's forcing me to back him up in the fight."

Yoda pressed his lips in a thin line, pondering for several minutes. "Perhaps correct, Qui-Gon truly was," he murmured finally out of the blue.

Ferus blinked again. "Master Jinn has been dead for…decades. What could he have known about Vader?"

Yoda, still pensive, did not answer the question. Perhaps he had only been talking to himself. Ferus finally shrugged aside his befuddlement. Likely it was just the aged master remembering another of Qui-Gon Jinn's legendarily obscure comments about the Living Force. "I realize that attack is not generally the Jedi way," he persisted, "but this would not be the first time that Jedi have been compelled to fight aggressively for greater causes. Master, these men have slaughtered and oppressed billions of beings for their own aggrandizement. Surely as servants of the Force we have a duty to oppose them!"

Yoda nodded, grave but distant.

"I think that our opportunity has come," Ferus pressed. "Neither Vader nor the Emperor knows you're here. And we also know something Palpatine doesn't—that Vader is out to finish him. The Jedi, or what's left of them"—he gestured a little bitterly to the two of them—"don't have a chance against Palpatine _and _Vader. But against Palpatine _and then _Vader, we might."

Yoda was still considering, but it was almost as though he was busy listening to other voices at the same time. "True, this is," he agreed. "If divided they are, succeed against them we may."

"And if we succeed," Ferus forged on, "we eliminate the chief threats to the children, we obtain an opportunity to retrieve them from Imperial hands, and we create an opening for reform in the galactic government. You always taught us to be servants of the light, Master. Sometimes that must mean battling darkness!"

"So certain of the dark, are you?" Yoda shook his head. "More complex is the situation than you know, Padawan. Vader is no mere enemy."

"I know he's a formidable adversary," Ferus agreed impatiently, "but—"

"An adversary?" Yoda cut him off. "Certain of this, I no longer am. If cooperate with a Jedi he will—"

"Only to overthrow the Emperor," Ferus jumped back in. "He's after power, Master, like all the Sith—"

"More complex, I believe his motivations may be," Yoda interjected sternly, with the sort of look he usually reserved for impudent younglings. "But too long, those explanations would take, and short of time we are. When is this ambush planned?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Ferus said. "But soon. A matter of days. The plan is that I'm to find a secret route into the throne room and be waiting before the ambush. Vader won't be with me. It won't be much harder for two Jedi to slip in than for one."

Yoda thought for a long few minutes, then finally gave a nod of assent. "Seek to destroy the Emperor we must," he said, "but not Vader. Attempt to disable him, we will, but permission to seek his death I do not give you, Padawan."

Ferus nodded tersely. Good enough.

"Now. Found this secret passage, have you?"

"I think I've found the entrance to one, Master, but I couldn't reach it without using the Force and I haven't found anything nearby to use as a ladder."

"Use the Force we will," Yoda declared. "Beneath the Emperor's notice I can remain." He led the way towards the hatch, but paused briefly and turned to Ferus once more with a gentler expression. "Alone you are not, Padawan. More allies in this darkness are there than you know."

Ferus, feeling much like a youngling again and not minding it a bit, blew out a deep, exhausted breath of relief.

* * *

"You could at least knock," Han snarled. That made the fifth time today that Vader had barged into his room without notice. Han was almost beginning to miss the suite at Imperial Palace.

Vader began dangerously, "I _own_ that door—"

"An' the room, an' the castle. Hell, probably the whole fracking galaxy," Han finished for him.

"You are approximately seventy-five percent correct," Vader said.

"Why the nine hells did I have to wind up with—hey!" Not for the first time Han was abruptly hauled off his bunk by what looked to be thin air. He swung an awkward kick at Vader as he landed on his feet. "I can fracking get up by myself, you know!"

"If you insist on caterwauling like a two year old, you may expect to be treated like one," Vader thundered. "I _do _have experience in that field, Solo."

Han scowled and crossed his arms. "I don't even know why you're here. I told you already, I don't know anything else about Lando!" So far the only reason Vader had talked to him was to grill him on anything and everything he knew about Lando Calrissian. Unhappily for him, that wasn't much.

"It is not about Calrissian." Vader flung a wad of fabric at him. "Change into that."

"What is—"

"Quickly, Solo!"

Han pulled a face and stalked into the 'fresher. 'That' turned out to be the damned nicest jumpsuit he'd ever met. It was made out of some kind of silky smooth fabric; Han could practically feel the decicred symbols woven into the cloth. He could probably buy a hangar on the Strip for this. A nice one. It fit him, which was not something Han generally expected out of clothes. There was even gold and red embroidery on the cuffs and collar, the only relief from the black. He did up the buttons—actual buttons, not the cheap seal tabs he was used to—and surveyed himself in the mirror.

He grinned and combed his hair back with his fingers. _Eat your heart out, Princess_. Nothing scummy about him now!

Of course, Vader would never have given him this just to be nice to him, which meant something was definitely up. Han stalked back out determined to learn what it was. He didn't have to ask.

"The Emperor has decided," Vader said as soon as he emerged, "that it is high time you were introduced to the slavering masses."

Han blinked. "What the hell are those?"

Vader stared for an inscrutable moment before adding, "He has therefore scheduled a press conference to be held in two hours."

Han's eyes went wide. _That _he understood. "Aw hells no," he groaned. "Tell him to call it off!"

"The thing about being Emperor," Vader said acidly, "is that nobody tells you what to do. This is not optional, Solo."

"I can't go on holocam in front of the whole galaxy!" Han screeched. "Do you know how many people are gonna recognize me?"

"Very few, given that you are for perhaps the first time in your life dressed as a respectable member of society." Secretly, Vader admitted that the possibility worried him slightly too, but the window of danger was less than a week long, and his agents could see to it that any inconvenient voices were quickly silenced or discredited.

"What is of more immediate concern," Vader continued, "is the fact that you will once again be speaking with the Emperor. He is the one whose recognition you have cause to fear. Should he discern that you are not Force-sensitive—"

"Then we're all screwed," Han agreed. Even Vader might not make it through that one; he sure wouldn't, and Luke would be in serious danger again. "Don't worry about," he said nonchalantly to hide his fears. "I did fine before."

"You were extremely fortunate before," Vader said coldly. "I have two hours to lessen our dependence on mere chance."

"You think you're gonna make a crazy wizard outta me in two hours?" Han snorted.

"Hardly." Vader's tone could have stripped the ears off a Gundark. "But I can teach you how to speak like one, provided you apply such intelligence as you have." He whipped out a sheet of flimsy, on which he'd written out lots of words. Han scanned it. It turned out to be a brief list of sentences which he was supposed to use somehow at the press conference. Each had a few directions on when he ought to say it. For example, right as they were walking into the room where the Emperor was…

"…I'm supposed to whisper that I sense a tremor in the Force?" Han barked a laugh. "And you all think _I'm _the stupid one here?"

"It is only stupid," Vader said pleasantly, "when one does not know what it _means_. I assure you, the Emperor and I do not share your handicap."

"Do the galaxy a favor," Han shot back, waving the list, "and never try to write dialogue ever again. Huttspit, this sounds like some B-holoflick script. I mean, seriously—who starts a press conference with a line like 'I have long foreseen this day'?"

"The Emperor," Vader snapped at him. "Do not question me. Merely memorize the sentences and be prepared to use them if I cue you."

"How d'you plan to do that without Old Wrinklecheeks noticing?"

Vader crossed his arms and regarded him with a particularly disdainful tilt to his helmet. There was a sudden light nudge against his shoulder. "Do you have any further inadequate objections?"

"That's about it," Han muttered.

"Then begin memorizing."

* * *

tbc...


	50. A Tangled Web They Weave

A/N: For once, I have something of genuine significance to say in my traditional note. After just over a month of frenzied dedication, staying up until two in the morning or later and staggering through morning work shifts with my eyes burning out of my skull, possibly even doing permanent damage to my vision by staring at a computer screen for so many hours…

…I have a completed rough draft. For THIS story. I say again, a COMPLETED rough draft.

I wrote one hundred and fifty-one pages of this story this month, bringing the whole shebang to a grand total of six hundred and sixty-two. All I will say is, I better get some reviews for an effort like that. :P

On a more serious note, it's still going to be awhile before regular posting can begin. This gigantic chunk of writing is now on its way to two betas who are going to tell me what parts don't make sense and what needs to be improved. Then I get to rip into it myself and polish it into shape. There may still be a considerable amount of revising and rewriting to do. But rest secure that I DO have the end of the story, one way or another, and if you've still got to wait, it's because I want to post my very best effort for you. In the meantime, I think I can safely offer this chapter up to tide you over. :P

* * *

"Gentlemen," Thrawn said with a pardonably wide smile, "I'm very glad to see all of you here on this historic occasion."

_Historic_, thought Bail Organa, _is not exactly the word I would have picked_. 'Lethally tense' would be a far better description for his current situation. On his side of the table: Dodonna, Rieekan, Madine, and several other military commanders of the Rebel Alliance, all perched in their seats as if expecting them to explode without notice. On the other side: a line of equally discomfited Imperial admirals. They were in a conference room aboard a small unarmed passenger yacht which had been rented especially for the occasion. Everyone had his sidearm with him, but Bail doubted anyone would be thick enough to open fire, as the odds were excellent that everyone in the room would consequently die.

"The elegance of the strategy which I am about to propose will lie chiefly in coordination," said Thrawn. "Our combined forces comprise four main offensive branches. The most sizeable of these are our Imperial battle groups"—he nodded at the Imperial side of the conference table—"which will constitute about eighty percent of our total numbers. Admiral Torrin's report lists sixty-four _Imperial_-class Destroyers and a hundred and eight _Victory_-class Destroyers. Senator Organa and the Rebel Alliance provide the remaining twenty percent, which will constitute the chief part of our light striking units. General Dodonna, I understand that you have fifty Mon Calamari starcruisers and twenty-two Corellian corvettes on your battle roster."

Dodonna nodded tersely. "With starfighter complements."

The Imperial side of the table looked unhappily surprised to hear such large figures. The Rebel side looked even unhappier to reveal them.

"That provides us with a total of two hundred and forty-four capital ships, as well as an estimated twenty-five hundred starfighters," Thrawn concluded. "Coruscant Home Fleet comprises a hundred and ten _Imperial_-class Destroyers and no more than a thousand starfighters. I think you can do the math, gentlemen."

For the first time, something like a grin cracked the grim faces around the table. The Rebels looked particularly pleased to be on the right side of the odds for once.

"And the other two branches of our offense?" Admiral Torrin asked.

Thrawn nodded. "These branches are our groundside teams. While our allied fleet secures control of the capital system, to include orbital stations and planetary traffic routes, the groundside elements will neutralize the Emperor. I am not able at this time to give you the details concerning these elements, since their success depends entirely upon secrecy and the advantage of surprise, but I can inform you that they are drawn from both the Imperial and the Alliance forces. One of these elements is already in place on Coruscant, and one will be inserted when we enter the system. You'll receive further information at a later date."

Reluctant nods went around the table. Of them all, the only one who knew what both of those elements were was Bail Organa. He arranged an expression of restrained curiosity for the others' benefit. Secrecy was indeed of the utmost importance…not least because it would be a Very Bad Thing should his and Thrawn's contingency plans somehow be leaked.

"Operation New Hope will commence in precisely forty-three hours and twelve minutes," Thrawn continued, glancing briefly at his wrist chrono. "In that time, gentlemen, we must perfect the coordination of two mass fleets to arrive simultaneously in the capital system from separate locations." Low mutters ran around the table. "In addition, each task group must be in full command of its separate objectives and completely conversant with the preplanned operations schedule. My own _Chimaera_ will serve as joint flagship for our naval force. After Coruscant Home Fleet has been subdued, the Imperial side of our force will be responsible for securing all planetary communications systems as well as major groundside objectives. You've received more detailed instructions in your briefing packets. Meanwhile, the Alliance ships will be responsible for securing the system, to include control of planetary checkpoints and hyperspace entry zones. I'll dispatch support from the _Victory_-class Destroyers as necessary. Are there any questions thus far?"

A hand went up from Admiral Torrin. "I have one, sir," he said with a tight smile. "What about Lord Vader?"

A nervous grumble echoed down both sides of the table.

"According to my latest reports, he's in the Coruscant system with the _Executor_," Torrin continued. "Unless by some miracle she's down for massive overhauls, that alone adds enough extra firepower to Home Fleet to nearly cancel our advantage in numbers."

Thrawn's grin could have been stolen from a voracious krakana. "I assure you, gentlemen, that I have taken both the _Executor _and Lord Vader into account while making these preparations."

"Begging your pardon, Admiral," Torrin snapped, "but am I meant to understand that this operation is in fact proceeding under _Lord Vader's_ orders?"

"You are meant to understand," Thrawn said softly, leaning towards Torrin with both hands on the conference table, "that Lord Vader is proceeding under _my _orders."

A sunrise-swift light dawned in the faces on the Imperial side of the table, while incredulity spread down the Rebel side. The revelation that Thrawn had already reeled in Vader sent inspiration and hope surging through the officers who had spent their careers in terror of his power. If Thrawn could pull _that _off, it seemed a foregone conclusion that he could achieve the conquest of Coruscant and the Empire as well. Even the Rebels felt the contagious excitement of the opportunity they'd been dragged into.

Bail met Thrawn's eyes momentarily. Of course, Vader wasn't under nearly as much control as Thrawn had made it sound…which was why his ultimatum to Thrawn had been so important. Withdrawing the Alliance from the Chiss admiral's forces would deal a deathblow to their hopes of creating a unified galactic government, even if they succeeded – but if the admiral did not remove both the Sith from any semblance of power, such a future had no hope anyway. Bail didn't like it – Vader's success against the Emperor was the lynchpin on which everything depended, and despite his treatment of Leia the Alderaanian could not quell his moral revulsion at the thought of turning on an ally, however reluctant.

But the blunt facts were that Vader was assisting them chiefly because of coercion, would most likely turn on them as soon as the Emperor was out of the way, and would seek to perpetuate the Empire under his own rule while training two innocent children to follow in his murderous footsteps. As this was considerably more revolting an alternative, Bail had given Thrawn his approval to take any measures necessary to prevent Vader from exercising power again. He was not such a fool as to think Thrawn would shun fatal solutions to the problem.

He also knew he'd never forgive himself if that happened – because of Leia, and because of Padmé's dying confession of faith in her husband. But the Force help him, he could see no other way. He'd do everything in his power to preserve the life of the man who'd been Anakin Skywalker. But if it became a choice between freedom and hope for the galaxy and for Padmé's children, and that one life, then Bail Organa must choose the former – and so must Thrawn.

Thrawn gave an infinitesimal inclination of his head, and Bail relaxed.

"If that answer satisfies you, gentlemen"—Thrawn's own satisfaction was a tangible thing—"I have only one more comment to make before we retire to our respective ships to begin final preparations. Heretofore, I have for convenience's sake referred to the Imperial and Alliance sides of our cooperative force. But at this point I wish to emphasize the fact that such distinctions are no longer of great importance. This is the time for old hostilities to be set aside. We are in this venture together, sirs, and we shall succeed in it—or fail in it—as one."

Bail allowed himself a wry smile as they all filed slowly out of the conference room to their various small craft. Although circumstances might have forced enemies together for the moment, it would take a miracle to produce any lasting unity. All of them were terrified of what failure would bring. Bail Organa was almost more afraid of the spectral consequences of victory.

* * *

"And _you _are?"

Imperial naval officers as a rule harbored an automatic distaste for anybody who appeared in their well-regulated military facilities in civilian dress. This wasn't news to Agent Baranne, who had long since accepted the military's dislike of him as a standard feature of his work. He didn't bother with a verbal answer, only produced his security pass and flashed it.

A cursory examination of the pass sufficed to put the fear of the Sith into the officer. Awkwardly he cleared his throat and smoothed his expression. "Our facilities will be placed at your disposal immediately, sir," he said, no longer sounding even a little annoyed. "Please step in."

The doors resealed promptly behind him as he took a moment to survey the huge operation floor of the Central Security Department. CSD, located in the naval headquarters complex, was the brain of Coruscant's entire planetary security system. Security sensor imagery, space and planetary traffic logs, license records, registrations, police reports – just about anything was available in its archives provided you had the clearance to access them. As a personal agent of Lord Vader, Baranne most certainly did.

"I'm going to need a full-access terminal with interactive capacity," he told the officer who'd been on watch at the lobby outside.

"I'll have one cleared for you, sir," the lieutenant agreed. "If you'll just wait a moment?"

Baranne nodded curtly, and while the lieutenant marched off he leaned against the wall with arms folded, watching the cool activity of the ops floor and considering his search strategy again. Lord Vader had informed him upon his arrival in system that the _Lady Luck _had been located in the North Aldray district, but there had as yet been no sign of Calrissian. No doubt Lord Vader's other agents had already been scouring the CSD's holo archives, but Baranne was willing to bet he had a better eye than any of them, and besides he'd seen the information broker face to face and knew precisely which dark-skinned man and which blonde toddlers he was looking for.

Calrissian seemed to have abandoned his ship; that indicated that he was no longer in the North Aldray district, and if Vader's men hadn't brought him up on the security grid since he'd most likely vanished into the lower levels where security coverage was commonly nonexistent. On the other hand, the fact that he'd landed in North Aldray indicated that he'd had business in Imperial City. It was much easier to win clearance to land in North Aldray than in the ridiculously overcrowded landing zones of Imperial City, and the two districts were immediately adjacent. He had the location of the _Lady Luck_, which should make it possible to predict the routes Calrissian might have taken to reach Imperial City and hopefully narrow the amount of footage he had to sift. By pinpointing Calrissian's trail during the first few hours he'd been on Coruscant, the agent would stand a better chance of unearthing what he'd been up to and where he'd gone since.

It would be tedious work. But definitely feasible. Baranne permitted himself a tight grin. This case was finally getting in hand –

Detecting a rise in the pitch of the murmurs from the ops floor, Baranne's train of thought jumped tracks. His steely gaze swept the screen arrays and identified the one at which everybody was now staring as the planetary news channel. A striking black-haired news correspondent, flushed with important excitement, was chattering at the holocam, with the main porticoes of Imperial Palace looming in the background. At the bottom ran a text announcement in Aurebesh:

IMPERIAL ADDRESS TO COMMENCE IN FIVE STANDARD MINUTES

"…His Majesty's office announced an unscheduled press conference early this morning Imperial City Time," the female correspondent was saying, "stating that the Emperor himself will be making a special address. Sources inside Imperial Palace have indicated that His Majesty will be joined by Lord Darth Vader, so as you can imagine, Jak, this is bound to be an important speech."

"Have you heard anything about the subject of the Emperor's address, Wylla?" Jak the news anchor asked from his side of the feed.

"No official word on that yet, Jak, but political analysts conjecture that given Lord Vader's participation the Emperor's remarks will most likely have to do with security concerns, perhaps even a new development in the growing clashes with armed dissident groups –"

A chime cut her off and Jak said quickly, "There's the commencement signal. We'll now take our viewers to the official Imperial transmission channel to view the Emperor's address in realtime."

The display faded briefly to black before the image re-coalesced, this time inside the unmistakable grandeur of the Imperial Press Conference Chamber. A phalanx of the Imperial Guard arranged at the base of the railed platform and flanked by a stormtrooper escort informed Baranne that the Emperor would indeed be making a personal address, rather than one of his usual PR aides. Rather than crowding in front of the platform with mikes and holocams, the audience of news reporters sat formally in even ranks at a very respectful distance, wielding styli and datapads. All chatter ceased on the CSD ops floor. Baranne spotted his lieutenant return, but didn't budge. His search could wait a few minutes; the Emperor's unscheduled addresses never took very long but were not events an investigative agent ought to miss.

All was still and expectant for another few heartbeats; then the Imperial Anthem shattered the silence. The gathered reporters in the holofeed leapt to their feet and every back in the CSD stiffened as the Emperor made his appearance, draped in his usual formal red robe with the hood up. He took his time, nodding to the reporters and their restrained applause, before assuming his position at the podium –

– and the rumors were true, there was Vader now, marching out at his usual brisk clip and pointedly flanking the Emperor on his right side –

But who was that with Vader?

A buzz of curiosity surged up in the CSD, and even the reporters in the feed began whispering in each others' ears at the sight of a lanky dark-haired teenager, outfitted in a crisp black jumpsuit. Baranne pushed suddenly up from the wall and took several involuntary steps towards the feed, missing the first words of the Emperor's address in his endeavor to get a better look at the teenager's face.

_I'll be damned. _

It was indeed Han Solo – Luke Skywalker's companion, whom Baranne had met himself aboard the _Millennium Falcon_ just before delivering both boys in Vader's custody. If memory served him, and it always did, Vader had ordered Han Solo released with his ship.

How then had the young man come to be _there_?

Baranne tried to repress the question – good agents did not question their employers' personal business – but instinct refused to let him. Han Solo had been bound up in his search for Luke Skywalker from the start. Now he'd cropped up once again, on the same planet as Calrissian. Either one of them might lead Baranne to young Luke and the blonde toddlers. Perhaps the missing Jedi student was the topic the Emperor planned to discuss. If so, he'd better pay attention.

"…future of this glorious Imperial experiment requires as much, if not more, attention as our present difficulties and past achievements," the Emperor was propounding. "The success of our mighty Empire is dependent upon the continuation of strong leadership. This we have enjoyed, thanks to the dedication of not only myself but of many of my companions who have nobly sacrificed of themselves to this high cause." He indicated Vader with an elegant gesture and nod, which the Dark Lord returned curtly.

"It is my responsibility to ensure that such leadership continues to bless our government and society after I can no longer provide it," the galactic monarch continued. "In this way I hope to reward your faith in me for the generation to come. Accordingly, I have decided that it is time I began making a concerted investment in those young citizens of our Empire who will serve as its guiding light in the future."

Baranne's eyes narrowed. Was this about the Imperial succession? Popular wisdom asserted that although no formal heir had been declared, Vader was the chief candidate to follow in the Emperor's footsteps – but why the presence of Han Solo?

"In light of this decision" – the Emperor was clearly relishing the suspense – "the appropriate time has arrived to introduce to you one of those future leaders."

It had to be about the succession – could it be that Solo –

"My friends," the Emperor declared expansively, "please join me in welcoming a particular friend of mine to Coruscant – Luke Skywalker."

He turned with a grandfatherly smile to Han Solo.

Baranne's jaw dropped involuntarily; he snapped it back shut. But the Emperor hadn't yet pulled the last surprise out of his voluminous sleeve.

"This young man is not only my friend," he continued, "but the son of my friend." And with that, he gestured to Vader, who put an unmistakably possessive hand on the young man's shoulder while directing him a little further forward.

Pandemonium erupted on the ops floor. Whatever the Emperor said next Baranne never did know; it couldn't have been important. As questions fired back and forth he turned to the gobsmacked lieutenant next to him. "Is that terminal ready?" he asked with perfect equilibrium.

The lieutenant gaped for a moment before realizing what Baranne was referring to. He guided the agent to the workstation in a daze and hastened back to the floor, leaving Baranne to ponder the astounding turn of events.

The boy in the transmission was most definitely _not _Luke Skywalker. Vader certainly knew that. Did the Emperor? Perhaps; perhaps not. Either way, what did it benefit either Vader or the Emperor to introduce the Corellian under Skywalker's name?

The answer must have something to do with the revelation that Skywalker was Vader's son. Han Solo was not Luke Skywalker; that could only mean that the _real _Luke Skywalker was the real son. At any rate that explained Vader's incessant fixation on the boy. But why this bizarre deception with Solo?

_Think, Baranne!_ What facts did he have? Vader had captured Skywalker and Solo, then released Solo. Some months later Skywalker had escaped and gone to Corellia – specifically to Hangar 1138 of the Strip, where he'd reappeared with two small girls who also had blonde hair and blue eyes, and had initially acquiesced to Baranne's demands. Evidently he had not gone to Corellia intending to evade the Empire – it must have been the girls.

Siblings. Baranne would have bet his life on it.

He switched on his terminal and brought up the holofile archives. If the girls were also Vader's children, then why would Calrissian have brought them to Imperial City unless he meant to return them to their father? That must have been his intent, because why else would a man being hunted by the Empire choose _Coruscant_ as his destination?

And if that had been Calrissian's intent…why hadn't those children arrived in Vader's hands already?

The agent leaned back in his swivel chair, swinging a little from side to side and scowling pensively through his display screen. "Someone else is after those children," he finally murmured.

But who?

"Itemized search mode," he ordered the terminal. It flicked to the appropriate screen. "Subject One: male human, skin tone seven or eight, black hair, height range of 1.7 to 1.8 meters. Subjects Two and Three: female humans, skin tone two or three, blonde hair, height range of 0.7 to 0.9 meters. Search North Aldray and Imperial City archives only. Time stamp: oh-one-oh-nine, present standard year, thirteen hundred hours to twenty-three hundred hours local time." He paused, then added, "Isolate for violent activity. Commence."

He sat back in his seat while the terminal began sifting through the footage banks, and wondered whether it would really be a good thing if he located Darth Vader's children with those criteria. If something violent _had_ happened, the odds of two toddlers surviving it couldn't be good. And if Baranne's targets were dead by the time he found them, _his _chances of survival would be even worse.

* * *

It had been…an informative day, the Emperor decided. More so than he had anticipated. He had considered the possibility of the address for several days – since Fett delivered young Skywalker to him, in fact – and the results had been precisely what he'd calculated. Firstly, an opportunity to observe the boy once again – more importantly, to gauge his interaction with his father. His conclusions about the latter subject were encouraging. Vader and his offspring were discernibly uneasy in each other's company, though both made a determined effort to appear otherwise. Excellent. What was not yet bonded together could easily be separated.

As for young Luke Skywalker himself, he had yet to give up playing the fool. Before the address, as the three of them had been waiting in the chamber adjoining the conference hall, he had been as much an uncouth blunderer as ever, kicking at table legs and jamming his hands in his pockets and slouching, and making pointed observations about how much he hated speaking to crowds. Even Vader, whose disdain for decorum had become a galactic proverb, reprimanded the child for his poor manners and finally ordered him to remain motionless and silent for the entire address. But young Luke's inexperience had wrought a few thin cracks in the meticulous façade; the Emperor had not failed to mark a few vocabulary slips which betrayed a greater knowledge of the ways of the Force than Skywalker had previously let on.

Satisfied that there was more to discover, Palpatine leaned back in his office chair, hands steepled in front of him as he surveyed the tri-dimensional galactic map he usually kept on the projector. Perhaps the most satisfying information gleaned today had been the affirmation of his firm control over Vader. Having kept his son a secret for so many months, his apprentice could not have been happy about bringing his existence to the attention of every citizen in the galaxy. He had nonetheless not made even the slightest objection. Evidently his master's reprimand had taken effect. Palpatine's thin lips lengthened and split into a malicious smile.

Of course, Vader was not the only one of his lackeys whose loyalty must constantly be monitored. Apparently one of his espionage trainers had been caught in a compromising activity of some variety or other this afternoon, shortly before the address. The man had been detained, naturally, but this was not a matter he could afford to leave to security; the espionage trainer in question had been involved with his personal deep-cover agents as a stealth tactics tutor. If any of the Hands he had so carefully been shaping and training since early childhood were complicit in this treachery, he would certainly be most displeased.

Not that he was not already displeased.

He brooded a moment longer before keying the com on his chair's armrest. "Bring him in."

The side door to his office opened to admit two of his guards marching a third man in binders. Entirely unremarkable in appearance and dress, the espionage trainer barely blinked as the guards dragged him in front of the ruler of the known galaxy.

"What did he do?" Palpatine asked the guard curtly. There was no point in observing courtesies when handling professional spies.

"He was discovered making an unauthorized encrypted transmission, Your Majesty." the guard reported. He placed a datapad in his master's expectant hand. "The transcript of the message."

Palpatine scanned the text leisurely. His chill gaze finally rested on the trainer. "You comprehend that the consequence will be death, I presume."

"Occupational hazard," said the other with a shrug.

In response to a cursory imperial gesture, the second guard promptly hammered the prisoner into the carpet with the shock end of his Force pike. Most would have screamed; the trainer grunted and struggled back onto his knees. Truly a regrettable loss; agents of such caliber were not exactly a decicred a dozen.

"Which of the Hands was he tutoring?" Palpatine had turned back to the first guard.

"Jade, Your Majesty."

"Detain her pending questioning."

The trainer snorted. "Save your time, she's barely even twelve – "

The Force pike cracked down without waiting for the Emperor's command. His guards knew the routine for handling insolent traitors.

"Treachery will crop up in the most unexpected of places," the Emperor observed pleasantly as the other writhed in pain on the carpet. "My office, for instance. I suggest you save your concern for yourself and leave Jade to me." He scanned the datapad once more. "It is possible I may grant you a less painful form of death if you cooperate. Identify this 'Red Eye.'"

The guard tapped him with the tip of the pike by way of encouragement. After chewing his lip bloody, the trainer managed, "I'll have to decline that offer, Your Majesty."

"Very well," Palpatine told him. "As it transpires, your cooperation is unnecessary. I am already aware that the man whom you contacted is in fact Grand Admiral Thrawn." His aides had allowed the communiqué to be transmitted, then pinpointed its destination, which had turned out to be the Chiss admiral's flagship.

The erstwhile espionage trainer blinked raggedly and set his shoulders. "Well, there's nothing I need to tell you, then."

Palpatine waved back the guard after the next blow of the pike. Much more of that and his prisoner would be useless for further interrogation. "Perhaps I can entice you another way," he said. "For each of the admiral's co-conspirators that you name, I shall spare you an hour of punishment before you die. Report enough of them and I may even have sufficient mercy to execute you by dawn."

"I have no names," he shrugged, as if they were discussing an everyday business deal. A violent aftershudder racked him and he spat a mouthful of blood onto the carpet.

"Most unfortunate for you. If you have anything else to say to me I suggest you speak quickly."

He grinned crookedly. "Only that it's between you and the admiral now, and may the best man win."

"I already have," Palpatine informed him. "Take him down to the usual facility."

The guards vanished with their staggering charge, driving him in the vanguard with prods of their pikes. The man had better enjoy his comfort while it lasted. He had perhaps five minutes. The Emperor fully intended to complete the man's demise personally; in the intervening days let the interrogators extract whatever secrets he still harbored. He himself had suddenly been given plenty to think about.

The unauthorized transmissions contained on the file stretched back several years; the traitor had been skillful. Even a great fool could have surmised from their contents that the security arrangements of Imperial Palace were hopelessly compromised; enormous overhaul and replacement of personnel would be required thanks to the connivances of that one man. The question was whether he had the time to complete them.

Grimly the Emperor spun his chair to face the broad viewport. He had always known that an officer of Thrawn's intellect could never be anything but a potential threat. What he'd not known was that the admiral had been actively plotting treason for years. Thrawn had suddenly whelmed ahead of him as a danger even greater than Vader. But although the admiral had certainly gotten the jump on him by a frightening margin, it was not certain the Chiss had acquired the advantage. Perhaps a coup was imminent; but perhaps it was not. Thrawn may have been scheming for years, but he'd also taken no overt action as yet; provided he didn't realize his plot had been compromised, it could be quite a while ere the admiral made his move. That meant time for Palpatine to bring his own strength to bear. A simple assassination would put an end to the matter.

But the Dark Side was tingling, brushing his mind with notes of anxiety. No – there was no time for subtleties. The Chiss would move soon, very soon; he foresaw it now. It could not be more than a matter of days. He must prepare immediately for the worst possibility. Thrawn could conceivably have obtained the cooperation of a sizeable percentage of the Imperial Fleet, which could be more than a match for even the formidable numbers of loyal ships standing watch on the capital system. He must act now to neutralize that potential imbalance.

The emperor considered the broad vista through his viewport for a moment longer. He tapped his hand on the armrest, furrowed his scarred brow. Then he depressed the com switch to speak with his aide.

"Prepare an encrypted interstellar connection to our outpost in the Despayre system."

"At once, Your Majesty."

* * *

tbc...


	51. Notes from the Underground

A/N: Thank you so much for your patience, everybody! We're nearly there. I'm still waiting for one of my betas to have a chance at going over the remaining material, but I think I can post this much to hopefully tide you over. On an administrative note, I've roughed out the chapter breaks and we seem to be looking at twelve more chapters plus an epilogue. Enjoy this slice – it's a good thick one – while I finish mopping up after myself.

A galaxy of thanks to **kataja **for being a bona fide saint of a beta, who has read through all one hundred and fifty pages not once but twice for me.

* * *

To think that merely months ago, this had been the sum total of his existence.

Darth Vader stormed out of the chief command hub and through the Naval Command Center complex, disgusted and bereft of anything resembling patience. Forcing himself to spend a day as if it were normal, meeting with the Admiralty and Imperial Intelligence, reviewing after-action reports and being briefed on the latest schemes for countering the Rebellion – that self-same Rebellion in which he had been rendered complicit. That was essentially the only thought that had run through his head all day, except for wondering which of the officers around him were also in league with Thrawn.

His constant dread over the various states of his missing children went without saying. Baranne had arrived on Coruscant only shortly before the Emperor's press stunt and had yet to emerge from the bowels of the Central Security Department. Calrissian's image and name remained in the fifth slot on the planetary catch-and-detain lists that were submitted to every police station; the Dark Lord did not dare include images of his daughters or of Luke. He could only hope Calrissian would lead to them. Luke had not surfaced on his mental radar. Every time he attempted to search for the boy on that front, he only found himself tugged back towards the muted glow of his distressed twin sister.

Distracted as he had been since coming down to the surface, young Leia's predicament had slipped from the front of his mind. But Thrawn's impending arrival – with a vast joint war fleet geared up for a battle to the death with the formidable force stationed in orbit around the capital – had brought it back to his attention. Despite being much the nastiest warship in the system, even the gargantuan _Executor _could fall prey to the vagaries of battle.

But what else could he do? Bringing his daughter down to the surface was out of question. Sending her out of the system in a flimsy shuttle was an even worse option. Dispatching the _Executor _herself would seriously weaken Thrawn's advantage and possibly endanger their chances of successfully deposing Palpatine, while transferring Leia to another Destroyer and sending _it _out would prompt undesirable questions. Besides, the captains of the Destroyers in system were unquestionably loyal to Palpatine and would be sure to report their highly unusual prisoner.

The quandary made him even more terrified, and therefore even angrier than he'd been yet today. His present route would lead him close to the CSD. Vader decided to vent his wrath on Baranne. He made a convenient and plausible target, and the startled terror of the entire CSD at his unexpected arrival might manage to amuse him.

He'd just turned down the final hallway when his agent appeared at the far end. Terrorizing the CSD would have to wait for another day. Vader ground to a halt until Baranne got within conversational distance. The agent broke into a jog, apparently even more impatient than the Sith, and contrived to get the first word in.

"I've got a lead, my lord," he said curtly, and handed over a datachip. "The holo trail ended about fifty levels from the surface, so I'm taking an escort to continue pursuit on foot. I'll contact you as soon as we've got more definite information."

"Good," was the most threatening response Vader could muster against such abrupt progress. "I will have a ground squadron meet you here."

Baranne nodded and began checking his sidearm. There was a grim set to his jaw which the Dark Lord did not like, but the busy corridors of Naval Command were not the place to ask questions about this most secret of affairs. He left Baranne waiting for the squad at the hangar and boarded his personal transport back to his castle. Ordering the forward passenger cabin cleared, he viewed the chip via the onboard computer.

It contained a summary report from his agent and a holoclip. Anxiously he viewed the latter. It had been taken from a security holocam located outside a lower-level entrance of one of Coruscant's starscrapers, where a stormtrooper was standing guard. An instant after the clip began, Lando Calrissian and his two missing daughters came into view, crossing the loading platform towards the trooper. A burning started in his throat; involuntarily his hand crept toward the fuzzy projected image.

Calrissian appeared to be arguing with the trooper to gain access to the building. The trooper, quite properly, was having none of it. At one point the information broker set one of the twins down so as to gesticulate more emphatically, but snatched her up again when she started wandering away over the platform.

A few minutes passed, during which Calrissian seemed to make no progress towards his goal. Then, mid-argument, he spun on his heel and sprinted as if a pride of nexus had appeared somewhere out of the holocam's range. A nanosecond too late, blaster fire erupted from inside the entrance and tore up the air where his daughters had just been. The trooper pivoted, preparing to open fire, but was caught by a stun beam. Just as Calrissian vanished down a ramp leading to the next lower gate, an armored blur on two fleet blazed out of the tunnel and took aim again –

– He'd missed.

The edges of the console had crumpled in Vader's grip. He forced himself to relax. This had been at least a day ago, according to the time stamp on the recording. His anxiety could do nothing for his children now. Had his hand been real it would have shaken with terror and rage as he selected Baranne's report for viewing.

_Holoclip was retrieved from SecCam140S12-449-3, situated at Subsidiary Cargo Gate Twelve on the south side of Imperial Palace, Level 140. Subjects continued to be pursued on a direct downward trajectory as far as Level 55. Last sighting was retrieved from SecCam55S12-449-3T, situated at Subsidiary Cargo Docking Platform Twelve on the south side of Imperial Palace, Level 55. Subjects were seen entering downward-bound cargo turbolift and presumably exited at a point below the repair line where security camera network has not yet resumed operational status._

In other words, Calrissian and his daughters had plunged into Coruscant's dark, cankerous bowels. As the starscrapers grew higher and became more and more connected, Coruscant's population had shifted its center of habitation up. Ninety percent of its inhabitants lived more than sixty levels above the actual surface of the planet, which had gradually been abandoned to darkness and decay. These days there was no telling what creatures lurked in its black mazes – just considering what pets people were liable to have released was enough to make Vader's skin crawl. The surface was Coruscant's answer to Corellia's nine hells, avoided by both wisdom and superstition. Even the ancient sublevels of Imperial Palace were almost entirely disconnected from the more recent upper structure, vacant and unpowered. The usual surveillance methods would not avail them; Baranne could only investigate on foot.

Come to think of it, another squad of troopers couldn't hurt. Vader sent the dispatch order and scanned the last line of the agent's report as his shuttle touched down within his castle.

_Assailant tentatively identified as Boba Fett._

Fear squirmed in his belly, cold and wild. It fueled his rage to new heights. Fett had attempted to eliminate Sara and Sandra, whom he had undoubtedly taken from Bast Castle along with Solo. Why would he have taken them without Palpatine's orders? But if his master had known whose children they were, why would he have sent Fett to kill them instead of taking them to use as leverage in the same way he had taken Solo? Vader's head spun with the contradictions, raging around the central question – _did his master know or didn't he? _

The answer meant life or death. Deliberately conceiving and raising two Force-sensitive children in total secrecy was subversion on a far different order of magnitude than discovering a live son whom the Emperor had told him was dead and reacting out of anger with similar lies. At best they represented disobedience of his master's standing order to eradicate all Force-sensitive beings not in service to him. At worst, Palpatine would consider them proof of betrayal. If the Emperor already knew that his servant had been raising two potential apprentices behind his back, he would be expecting further treachery and no doubt was well prepared.

But if the Emperor did _not _know, he and Olin still had a chance of taking the Sith Master by surprise when the moment for attack came. All hope of success against the scheming despot depended upon that advantage. Without it he stood to lose far more than his life.

The natural response to all this was, of course, rampant fury. Thus far, he raged to himself as he careened off his shuttle, the only child he'd managed to protect at all was that never-to-be-sufficiently-cursed, scum-spawned Corellian mutt masquerading as his heir –

"My lord?" An aide had arrived around a corner, cowering in trepidation. Vader was tempted to kill him simply for being there and being alive, but reminded himself that neither of those crimes was exactly the aide's fault. "There seems to have been a miscommunication with our outpost commander stationed at Vjun, Captain Landre. We received this message from him about half an hour ago." The aide swallowed as he handed over the chip. "Apparently his mobile task force has just arrived in the Borleias system."

"What?" Vader nearly crushed the chip in his fresh surge of wrath. "I issued no deployment orders!"

"That's what we told him, my lord," the aide cringed, "but he insists that you personally instructed him to proceed to the Core and await additional orders in the outer Borleias system. In fact, he transmitted us a copy of this communication. We're analyzing it right now, but it doesn't appear to have been forged –"

"Get me a connection to Captain Landre _immediately_," Vader snarled, shoving the chip back at the aide.

* * *

As many questions as Ferus had, it wasn't possible to ask them. Behind the dummy access panel there had indeed been a secret passage – in fact a whole maze of them. Without the fungus trail to guide them, even Yoda would have had a job picking the correct path. The warren of cramped tunnels and miniaturized turbolifts led them a circuitous route – sometimes long and straight, sometimes following unorthodox curves and arches, sometimes coming to six or eight-way intersections. Several times Yoda sensed someone else nearby in their passages, but they avoided any run-ins until the trail dead-ended into a corridor. Ferus leaned against the exit carefully and listened.

"Not a public corridor, Master," he murmured. "Too few people."

Yoda tapped his gimer stick on the floor. "But not the Emperor's chambers. Too busy for that it is."

Ferus edged back from the door, keeping his lightsaber in hand just in case someone decided to barge in on them. "I think there's a spatial locator on this thing," he said, fiddling with the wrist receiver. "Maybe – there it is."

A dimly glowing hologram of the Imperial Palace flickered into being. A red pinprick noting their position glowed amidst the upper levels.

"We're about a hundred levels from the pinnacle," Ferus said. "The private throne room is up there." He tapped the tip of the central spire. "According to Vader that's where they usually meet if it's not a matter of state, and this wouldn't be."

Yoda nibbled the top of his stick. "Trace our route through the building's floor plan, can this device?"

Ferus tapped some controls experimentally. The hologram expanded to exhibit miniaturized versions of Imperial Palace and Vader's castle, adding a thin snaking red line throughout the two denoting Ferus's route thus far. "Looks like it, Master."

"Good, good," Yoda said cheerfully. "Come, young Olin." He started pattering back the way they'd come. "Time we have until this ambush of Vader's," he called over his shoulder. "Many upward-bound lifts I have noticed. Explore them we will, and find an entrance to this throne room we might."

"Vader will get antsy if I take too long about getting back," Ferus said, not without some bitterness.

"Doing his bidding, you are," Yoda reminded him with an urchin's grin. "To seek an entrance to this place he sent you, did he not?"

"I rather doubt he meant for me to take you along on the expedition," Ferus observed.

"What Vader knows not," Yoda observed with a mischievous quirk of his ears, "hurts him not."

"Not yet, you mean."

* * *

Mara Jade frowned as she glanced around her stealth tutor's office. When he hadn't shown up at the usual training room, she'd decided to go looking for him. No one had told her the lesson had been canceled or switched, so she had concluded he must have run late working on something else. But he wasn't here either. His work terminal was missing; maybe he had left on an emergency assignment.

She should have left to find another trainer and ask about the stealth lesson. And she would have…

…Except for the irresistible fact that her confiscated electrobinoculars _had _to be in this office somewhere, and she'd never have a better chance to nick them back. They might even still have the snapshots of Boba Fett and the man in the cryostasis chamber. Her sense of adventure piqued, Mara crept in, sealed the door behind her, and started rummaging through his drawers and cabinets. She found the binoculars in the supposedly secure arm compartment of his work chair – hacking passcodes was a skill she'd mastered last year. Eagerly she switched them on to view whatever images were still in its memory.

Everything was still there – except for the images of Fett. When she reached the place where they should have been, something else appeared: a snapshot of her tutor's work terminal screen covered in text.

_Instead of class, _it said, _we'll be holding a practical exercise. For the next week I will be controlling an evasion training simulation. Your mission is to evade capture by Imperial authorities for the next 168 standard hours, beginning immediately upon receipt of this message. Be advised that I will use all resources and ruses at my disposal to prevent success. Trust no one you usually would. Use all resources and ruses at your disposal to acquire allies and evade capture by Imperial authorities. Good luck_.

Flush with excitement, Mara leapt to her feet and slipped out of the office down the corridor, down one more, and vanished through a hidden panel into one of Imperial Palace's many secret passages where the surveillance cams could not detect her. Two practical assignments in one day! And this one sounded even better than breaking into Vader's castle. Though Mara's head still ached from being walloped by a falling glowpanel, it had otherwise been easy; but avoiding Imperial authorities who were out to catch her for a whole week would be a real challenge.

But she'd do it. Letting her master down wasn't an option in Mara's book.

* * *

Though a lot of its original bunk space had been taken up by modifications and weaponry add-ons, the _lambda _shuttle still had four separate bunkrooms. Lando decreed that they were all going to sleep in the same cabin nonetheless, saying he didn't want Luke to get any ideas about sneaking out of the ship in the middle of the night. Luke scowled, but obediently climbed onto the top bunk. Sara and Sandra were sharing the one right beneath him, and Lando had claimed the other bottom bunk across the cabin. Luke was faintly surprised nobody had come to investigate the unholy racket of his snoring – they could probably hear it in Imperial City. How could his sisters sleep through it? If Luke hadn't been planning to stay awake, he would have been mightily annoyed.

Very quietly, he peeled the blanket back and swung himself over the edge in one smooth movement, holding on to one end of the frame and lowering his bare feet silently onto the freezing deck. His boots were under Lando's pillow, right next to his lightsaber – drat him anyway, the man was almost as paranoid as his father. Not that Luke could really blame him; the thought of having to explain the last week or so to his father made Luke want to bury himself beneath the lowest level of Coruscant and never come out again. It'd be even worse for Lando, as he couldn't rely on family relationships to pin back Father's inevitable fury.

But Luke just couldn't _take _it anymore. Han was out there, squirming in the Emperor's merciless grip, and the Emperor thought Han was _him_. So whatever horrible things he was doing to Han, they were Luke's fault really. What if Yoda wasn't fast enough? What if he couldn't get Han out? What if Han was _dead_?

At the very least, he had to check the news. If something had happened, perhaps he could find out about it. Lando had refused to let him boot up the Holonet connection, saying it was just putting a foot down a slippery slope that would get him killed. Luke rolled his eyes again as he nudged the door open and crept to the cockpit. _The local news isn't going to kill me. _

He sealed the door to muffle any sounds that might wake the others up and switched on the cockpit's reserve power so he could run the computers without firing any engines or generators. He didn't try searching for anything but standard news feeds. They probably were less likely to have the information he was looking for, but if he started hunting for illegal feeds he might tip off an Imperial monitor and get them all arrested, and what stormtrooper would believe that they were really Vader's kids? Whatever Lando thought, he _wasn't _stupid.

Selecting the official Imperial planetary news feed, Luke sat back, waiting for the screen to adjust and preparing himself for a long search –

And then Han was staring straight at him.

Luke blinked in disbelief.

_LORD VADER REVEALS SECRET SON! _screeched the headline in frenetic bold caps.

That was only the first headline. The floating tag line at the bottom was full of blurbs about nothing _but _Han. There was one passing mention of Rebels and another about some new bill granting additional powers to the planetary governors, but other than that Han was apparently the only thing happening anywhere in the galaxy. _Son of Vader May Inherit Imperial Throne…Unknown Teenager Is Son of Sith Lord…_Luke's brain was going numb…_Emperor Hints at Significant Gov't Role for Son of Vader…_

After bouncing in bewilderment from headline to headline, Luke finally made himself pick one to read. It seemed that the Emperor had made some sort of speech today and had introduced Han as…well, as _him_.

And evidently his father was going along with it, because there he was in the background of the pictures, standing next to Han. When had his father even gotten to Coruscant? Luke was sure he'd been with the Fleet, or at least out looking for him and his sisters. But here he was on Coruscant telling everybody that Han was his son. Why hadn't he told the Emperor who Han really was? Why was his father leaving Han in danger when he could protect him? _Why? _

He was shaking; his hand wouldn't stay steady enough for him to select the holofile of the Emperor's speech. He ran it through his hair and got up to pace the cockpit, no longer remembering that he had to keep quiet and not wake up Lando. Maybe – maybe his father was just trying to keep Han safe? After all, the Emperor would be pretty ticked to find out that Boba Fett had kidnapped the wrong kid for him – perhaps his father thought Han would be safer if he went along with it.

_Luke, you idiot, what are you thinking? Father _hates _Han, remember? _Heck, the very last time they'd talked he'd been threatening to lock Han up and torture him if it was the only way to keep Luke and the twins a secret from Palpatine. Nope – the Emperor could beat the snot out of Han Solo and mop the floor with him afterward, but as long as Luke was out of the line of fire his father wouldn't care. He might even let Han get killed – especially if he thought it was somehow Han's fault that Sara and Sandra had been kidnapped –

Except it _wasn't _Han's fault – it was _his_, for not stopping Fett in the first place! And then he'd lost them all over again on Corellia –

Corellia! Agent Baranne had probably told his father all about the battle on the Strip by now. Suppose he thought they'd all been killed? That would explain why he wasn't out looking for them. And if he thought the girls were dead – then he was probably really, really angry –

Or – or what if – what if Vader _did _know it was Luke's fault? What if he knew Han was the one who'd tried to save Sara and Sandra, and Luke was the one who hadn't stopped Fett getting away? What if he'd decided Han would make a better son? Luke had only been living with him for a few months, and he'd been pretty much nothing but trouble the whole time.

Or suppose…suppose he thought Luke had just up and run away again?

The idea of having done such a thing – after the memory of his father hugging him tight and asking, almost _pleading_ that Luke never leave him – sent a horrible wrench through Luke's gut. He sagged against the bulkhead and weakly wiped at his forehead. Of _course _that was what his father thought had happened! Why had it never occurred to him until now?

_I have to talk to him_. He knew Yoda had told him to stay with Lando, knew that Yoda wouldn't want him to go looking for his father – that it was dangerous, that it might not even be the best thing he could do for his father – but he _had _to. He had to get Han away from the Emperor so something didn't happen to him. He had to talk to his father, tell him that Sara and Sandra were alright – tell him that he loved him, that he hadn't run away really –

He'd have to go without his shoes or his lightsaber. He couldn't risk waking up Lando or the twins. The shoes weren't such a big problem; it was the idea of going unarmed that worried him. But Lando's blaster was in the arms locker; he could probably pick it open and take that, as long as he moved fast and quiet. He'd look less suspicious without a lightsaber, too.

_Just hope I can find my way back__…_

* * *

"What do you mean, you cannot locate her?" Composure was something the Emperor rarely lost in front of subordinates, but with treachery suddenly springing up on every side this frustration was simply one too many.

The captain of the Imperial Guard somehow managed not to cringe. "We not yet able to locate Mara Jade, Your Majesty," he repeated. "None of her trainers report having seen her at any time during the past twelve hours and she has not been spotted on the surveillance systems. I ordered a complete manned search of the building which should be finished in another two hours."

"You," Palpatine said conversationally, "are the most highly trained and best-equipped security brigade the galaxy has ever known, and you cannot capture a twelve year old girl."

"Not yet, Your Majesty," the captain insisted.

"You did search the secret passages."

"Neither Jade nor any other unauthorized personnel were located in the clandestine sections of the building, Your Majesty. With your permission, I plan to transmit Jade's information to the planetary security network at large."

Palpatine brooded on the question. If once he placed information about the girl in the wider sphere of knowledge, Mara Jade would have ceased to be of use. Twelve years of investment and painstaking training, gone just like that. Such a promising and talented child too…

"Do so, Captain," he murmured. "And pray you do not fail me."

That trainer's death would indeed be slow and painful.

As would that of Mara Jade, if the girl dared defy him much longer. Briefly the Emperor considered using the Force to locate the child himself – though hiding beneath the strong mental shields he had taught her to always maintain and therefore out of his mental sight, she would not be able to hold them against the superior power of a Sith Master. But that might attract Vader's attention, even alert him to the fact that his master had lost control of an underling. Young Jade did not pose even a fraction of the threat that Vader would should he scent weakness – and he had yet to rule out the chance that the ex-Jedi was also complicit with Thrawn's plot.

Well. If his apprentice _was _harboring treasonous designs, they would not remain secret for long. His agents had already begun probing more deeply into the Dark Lord's activities from a safe distance, and if there was any compromising information in the messages the trainer had sent, it would soon be identified. Perhaps it was time to be rid of Vader anyway; in young Skywalker he had a more malleable alternative.

Yes…perhaps…

* * *

Mara had decided her best bet would be to travel into the lower levels and make her way towards the old industrial districts, where there ought to be plenty of hiding places and fewer chances of being located. She sped down through the secret passages of the Palace for a short distance until she reached one that included an access point into one of the turbolift shafts. It had been intended as a secret lift car stop; by design there wasn't room in the shaft for an adult to scale its walls.

But Mara wasn't an adult. She was a smallish twelve-year-old who fit nicely into the recessed ladder nook that ran up and down the whole length of the shaft. It had been built so that repair droids could access the power lines, but provided Mara was careful to press close against the rungs she could squeeze into the space and still keep a few inches between herself and any passing lift cars. She smirked to herself as she shimmied down story after story. It might be a long and exhausting descent on foot, but nobody would think to look for her in a turbolift shaft that wasn't supposed to be accessible to humans. Not even her stealth trainer knew about this little secret of hers. She'd discovered it during one of her exercises and had seen no reason to spread the word.

Around the upper levels she had to watch for passing cars all the time, but as the hours passed and she reached the lower levels they thinned out and finally ceased to appear at all. After going some levels further she set her feet down on the base of the shaft and pulled out her glowstick. Several ratlike creatures fled its bright beam, vanishing into chewed-out nooks. Below this slab lurked the basement levels of Imperial Palace, which had been built eons ago and where nobody ever dared venture. No surveillance systems functioned down there; there was no power at all anymore. The stormtroopers, and even the Emperor's bodyguards, would be hard-pressed to find her there.

Reverently Mara took from her belt the Emperor's latest gift to her – a functional lightsaber, taken from a vanquished Jedi Master. The battle-scarred hilt was still too big for the small, awed hands she ran over it, but someday she'd be worthy of it. For now it would be an ideal tool. She carefully activated it, sucking her breath in with delight at the gorgeous violet blade. Brighter than her measly glowstick by far, it bathed the whole base of the shaft in iridescent purple light. She took another moment to admire the magnificent weapon before beginning her cut through the floor, making sure to bevel the edges so she'd be able to put the piece back in place behind her. Finishing the cut, she screwed up her forehead in concentration, balled her fists, and finally got the cut piece of duracrete to hoist itself out of the new hole.

Wiping sweat away, staying back fron the edge in case something should be lurking below, Mara tossed her glowstick through and peered to see where it had landed. Good – she seemed to have cut through the ceiling of a passage. The floor wasn't far. Her lightsaber still in hand, she dropped through. Overhead, the chunk of durasteel levitated back into its spot.

The corridor in which she'd landed was dark and dilapidated, but otherwise not very alarming. Here and there some of the emergency lights in the wall were still active, and they provided just enough light that she could find her footing without the lightsaber or the glowstick. She turned them both off against future need and struck out in a westerly direction. _Industrial district, here I come!_

After a few course adjustments, she found a passage that took her out of Imperial Palace to the next building over. So far she'd still encountered nothing more alarming than the occasional pseudo-rat or night lizard. Perhaps she hadn't gone down far enough – weren't the sublevels supposed to be a wild zoo of all the galaxy's most freakish and least picky predators? But seeing no signs of power she calmed her fears and continued - down corridors, down another few levels, around the next corner –

Whoa.

The hall which she had just entered looked like the relic of a warzone. Blaster fire had perforated the walls. Great black scorch marks stretched haphazard across the walls and the ceiling. Nearby the entrance of a turbolift shaft had been blown away, leaving a gaping black chasm. The edges of the walls' wounds still stuck out sharp and fresh. There had been one wild fight here not long ago. Mara glanced around uneasily, hoping she hadn't wandered into gang territory. She'd thought that was all farther south, roundabouts the Southern Underground districts. But suppose she'd somehow lost track of her direction?

Anxious, she pulled out her lightsaber once more and rounded the corner in the direction the battle had taken – and found that she had company.

Both of them gasped and froze, unable to make out each other's faces in the impoverished illumination of the emergency lights. Mara thought it was a boy, not much older than herself; he had a blaster. Should she shoot? Or just drive him away?

She got no chance to decide, because voices suddenly echoed in the distance, from the way she'd come. Voices – and the unmistakable staccato of marching boots. She looked over her shoulder, pale with surprise. Stormtroopers! How could they have found her so soon?

"Come _on_!" the boy at the other end of the corridor hissed, waving to her.

_Use all resources and ruses at your disposal to acquire allies and evade capture by Imperial authorities_, her stealth trainer's voice echoed in her head. Well, whoever this boy was, what he certainly _wasn't _was an Imperial authority. Mara dashed towards him; taking her arm he sprinted down a narrow side hall and shoved her into a tiny supply closet. Its ceiling and walls were crumbly with age and dust kept falling in her eyes, but the pounding of adrenaline enabled her to ignore the discomfort. Across from her the shadowy boy gripped his blaster at the ready, apparently planning to attack the troopers if they were discovered.

"…think we've got something, Agent," a filtered voice echoed.

"Mm," concurred a clearer voice, which had paused not far from their corridor. "This seems to be the last of the battle. Someone must have won…but no bodies…"

"Perhaps scavengers," the filtered voice suggested.

"No. I doubt they'd have made such a clean job of it." There was a brief pause. "No, there were at least some survivors. We'll continue down this way. They must have retreated down one of these corridors…"

Footsteps, more footsteps – and then there were some echoing loudly down their corridor, right past their closet door – Mara held her breath for dear life –

"No sign of them this way," a trooper announced.

"This route looks more likely," called the voice belonging to the agent. "We'll see where it leads."

After a long several minutes of scurrying activity, the footsteps vanished down the corridor Mara had been planning to take. For another several minutes they waited before the boy dared to inch out into the hall. "Clear," he whispered back to Mara, who decided that constituted permission to switch on her glowstick and get a better look at this character.

He was human, she confirmed, probably about her age, with blond hair and much-occupied blue eyes. Undercity grime had left its marks over most of his wardrobe, which she noted with bemusement did not include a pair of shoes or socks. In his hand he held a full-size blaster. Mara might have dismissed him as an ignorant lowlife street rat if he weren't glancing sharply at her lightsaber every other second.

"You're hiding from them too?" he murmured, with a keen look.

"Yes," Mara said slowly. Well, it was true, wasn't it? This week, anyway. And she was supposed to be making allies to improve her chances of success. Who better than a fellow fugitive familiar with the underground? She always had her lightsaber if things went sour.

The boy glanced significantly at her lightsaber. "Me too," he said, with a pointed nod.

Mara stiffened. Could it be that this boy was an agent in training too? Maybe even on a similar practical assignment? Might he be who her trainer had meant by talking about allies? "Do you have friends in the Palace?" she asked, giving him a pointed nod in return.

He lit up like a glowpanel. "Yes! You do too?"

Mara nodded and even smiled at him. She'd never met someone her own age before that she'd been able to treat as an equal. Those airheads in dancing class didn't count. Questions chased around her mind – did he have the same trainers, how long had he been learning to serve the Emperor, did he know anyone else their age – but professional secret agents didn't interrogate each other no matter what age they were, and Mara was determined to be exquisitely professional.

He blew out a deep sigh. "Do you know the way in? I haven't been able to find it."

Perhaps he'd gotten turned around after wandering the lower levels for so long. Mara believed it; with so many unlit mazes and nothing but a basic compass at best, keeping track of where you'd gone and how you'd gotten there must be a tough trick. She'd better remember to be extra careful. "I can show you the way back," she said. "If you'll show me the way to the industrial district."

He winced and combed through his hair with one hand. "I don't think you'd better go towards the industrial district. It's the same way those stormtroopers are heading. You might run into them again."

Mara considered that. Perhaps it would be better to take an easterly direction then, towards the vicinity of Vader's castle. Such was the local fear of Darth Vader that the lower levels surrounding his castle were said to be almost completely deserted. Or she could go towards the old Jedi Temple; that area was at least as desolate. Either way, showing her new companion the way to the Palace would give her time to contemplate her route.

"But I promise that once I'm done with what I need to do at the Palace, I'll help you get safely away," he said fiercely.

Mara decided that even if he was odd, she liked him. Loyalty was the chief virtue of her creed and he seemed to have it in abundance. "What's your name?"

He hesitated and glanced around. "Luke," he mumbled, and grabbed her hand for an old-fashioned but determined handshake, so seriously she almost burst out laughing. She'd only seen such formalities at court before.

"I'm Mara," she volunteered. No call for last names. "I think I'll manage to hide fine on my own, but I'll take you to the Palace entrance I used. It's not too far." From a glance, she figured he was small enough to shimmy through the lift shaft as she had. And for all her bravado, she just might need some help avoiding the troops as the days passed. It couldn't hurt to be able to call in a favor. "Long climb, though."

He grinned broadly and pointed out the grappling attachment on his blaster. "I think I'll manage."

* * *

tbc


	52. The Crucible

A/N: Still waiting on my second beta, which is why I'm not yet assuming a regular posting rhythm. I can, however, tell you that I have finalized the chapter breakdowns. Chapter 63 will be the final full-length chapter; Chapter 64 will be an epilogue. I'll let you all know when I set up the regular posting schedule. Reviewers, my apologies for not responding to most of you; I'm off to tackle a few of those now. :P Thanks to all the silent readers as well for giving me a hearing for so long!

* * *

Firmus Piett drew a deep, savoring breath as he stepped off the ramp of his shuttle. Artificial and polluted though the air of Coruscant was, it felt far less poisonous than the atmosphere of the _Executor_. The tension over the course of their transit to the capital system had become crushing; not even Vader's absence from the ship since their arrival had done much to relieve the pressure. Thank the fates that this action report gave him an excuse to come down to Naval HQ personally.

Determined to forget for the next two hours that he was in the process of committing high treason, Piett started briskly across the landing pad. Just as he reached the entrance of the building, he was intercepted by a stormtrooper. "Captain Firmus Piett?"

"Yes?"

"You're requested to accompany me to the security office briefly. The captain wants to speak with you for a moment."

Probably about his building security clearance. It had been awhile since he'd been on Coruscant, and the protocols had likely changed. He followed the trooper for a few minutes through the labyrinth that was the HQ building until they reached the security center. The door opened. Firmus Piett found himself facing an armed squadron.

There was sharp click behind him as his escort stormtrooper switched his blaster to stun setting.

"Captain Piett." The security center's CO had appeared. "You will come with us."

Piett swallowed. "Am I under arrest?"

"Not yet," the CO informed him in a tone that boded no bright futures. Several of the stormtroopers formed a cordon around him and marched him through the security office until they came to the landing bay, where a nondescript civilian speeder waited with ramp lowered.

At the top towered a fully-uniformed member of the Imperial Guard.

_This is not good._

* * *

For being secret, these passages saw an awful lot of traffic. Without their Force senses, the two skulking Jedi would have been discovered at least a dozen times by now. Even with them, mapping out a path that avoided all company was a time-consuming task verging on the impossible. Ferus wiped a film of sweat off his forehead as he sensed a pair of fiercely intent minds ahead of them veer away down a different corridor. So far Yoda's expertise with mind tricks, honed to laser-like accuracy over the arc of centuries, had been enough to clear the path ahead of them – but the strain of subtly bending such determined intellects had to be mounting even for him. What the hells were they all so keen on doing anyway?

"Looking for someone they are," Yoda murmured in response to Ferus' thoughts.

"Not us, I hope."

Yoda shook his head. If he had any conjectures about who the Imperials _were _looking for, he didn't voice them. "Suspect, I do, that an entrance to the throne room we will not reach. If exist one does, using it these beings most likely are."

"Shavit," said Ferus, before remembering that swearing was not usually considered appropriate for a Jedi and definitely not in front of a master.

Yoda twitched an ear in stern rebuke. "Continue upward we will. To the east, the most used passages seem to be. Therefore to the west we will bear."

Space was in steadily shorter supply they ascended up into the spire that housed the private throne room, leaving them with fewer alternatives to avoid the traffic. The good news was that there was also steadily less traffic; their particular route didn't seem to be frequently used. The next cramped turbolift shot them straight up past the section of the building that housed the Emperor's quarters. Without an abbreviated tunnel twisted through power, air, and sewage lines, existing purely to connect with the next turbolift. Ferus worked his way past the pipes and other protruding infrastructure to examine it.

"Horizontal tube," he grunted. "But we can't be too far from the throne room…"

He switched on the locator function of his wrist receiver.

"Hmm," Yoda said with satisfaction. "Beside the west wall of the throne room we are."

Ferus squinted at the projection. They were actually _in _the exterior wall of the Palace, because the entire space at the top of the spire was taken up by the throne room. That other turbolift must take an arc around the throne room. They seemed to be standing at a point about four or five meters above the floor level, another three below the level of the dais. "Doesn't look like we're at the right height to find an entrance."

Yoda shook his head. "Examine these walls I will. Check the turbolift you must and see where it leads."

Ferus nodded and wormed his way down to the lift car. The short ride deposited him in a cramped square alcove, right behind a decorative grill. He caught his breath and tamped down his presence in the Force – he could peer through the openings directly into the chamber. Fortunately, it was empty at the moment. The grill afforded a clear view of the dais and the audience platform. Presumably this little perch had been made so that the Emperor's agents could listen in on important conversations without revealing their existence. He steeled himself and surveyed his position relative to the dais with a more critical eye, identifying the general area where Yoda was waiting in the short tunnel and comparing the two options.

The tunnel would be better. If he had a clear view of the dais, then Palpatine would have a clear view of them if they attempted to cut through; he might even have some way of determining whether the spy perch was occupied. The tunnel, however, passed just under the dais platform. Provided they were careful, they might get far closer to the Emperor before being noticed.

Ferus took another long look at the room, memorizing as much of its layout and lighting as he could before taking the lift back to Yoda and describing everything he'd discovered.

"Acceptable, this place will be," the Jedi Master decided. "More difficult to cut through, this wall will be, but weaken it we can now if absent the Emperor is."

A quick check of the Force assured them no one was close enough to notice the sounds of the blades. Igniting them the two Jedi etched in the outlines of a cut that would accommodate Ferus. Yoda added a series of cross-slashes, cutting diagonally back and forth across the slab, careful not to penetrate to the other side of the wall. They stepped back to survey their handiwork. In the dim lighting of the tunnel and behind the array of infrastructure, the marks were scarcely visible. Just to improve the camouflage Ferus burned out the nearest glowpanel.

"Return to Vader, you must," Yoda said as they prepared to leave. "Conceal myself I will where first you met me. When the time comes, contact me you will."

Ferus nodded and wriggled into the lift car. He didn't relish going back to Vader; but with Yoda here to back him up, they might stand a slim chance of victory after all.

* * *

He was not actually in handcuffs yet. But if a mere captain was being escorted to the Emperor's office by the Imperial Guard after having been snatched away from routine business at naval HQ, then that captain was either a secret agent in disguise or in lightyear-deep poodoo. Firmus Piett knew for a fact that he was not the former. As he stood waiting with dry lips, staring at the ominous red doors of the Emperor's private office, he longed for an explanation that was neither of the two.

There wasn't one.

Several years of service directly under Darth Vader were all that enabled him to keep his composure surrounded by the bodyguards. He prayed it would preserve his dignity before the Emperor. Contemplator of high treason or not, he was still a naval officer, and he'd be damned if he was going to cringe like he'd seen some of his superiors do before Vader's lethal wrath –

The doors swung open. The guard's mask locked pointedly onto Piett. He clasped his hands behind his back so as to look professional and stop their shaking, and stepped inside.

The Emperor was indeed within, garbed in his customary hooded black robe, seated behind his desk with hands steepled. Protocol! What was the correct protocol? Unable to recall the lessons from Academy, Piett could only resort to the usual expectations when in Vader's presence. He came to a halt about ten feet from the desk, snapped to attention, saluted, and then added a deep bow for good measure. Navy officers weren't supposed to kneel, were they?

Force, he hoped not.

"Captain Piett," the Emperor's graveled voice acknowledged. "You may rise."

Piett eked out a hoarse, "Thank you, Your Majesty," as he straightened.

"No doubt you are curious as to the reason for this summons." The Emperor sat back and waited for a response. As it had not been a question, Piett did not venture one. It wouldn't do to look as though he thought people suspected him – or worse, to sound guilty.

But from that keen yellowed gaze, his monarch already suspected him. He regarded Piett for the longest minute in the history of the galaxy. "Captain," he eventually ordered his bodyguard, "escort my other guest in, if you will." The bodyguard bowed and exited through the side door.

"Captain Piett," the Emperor remarked into the subsequent silence. "Your service record is most impressive." He tapped a folder sitting on his desk.

"Thank you, Your Majesty," Piett choked.

"Clearly," the Emperor continued, "Lord Vader agrees with my assessment. He gave you command of the _Executor_ directly out of the construction docks, did he not?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. A great honor."

"Tell me." The Emperor settled back in his chair, stretching his withered arms out, idly stroking the ends of the armrests. "What has your experience been of serving under Lord Vader?"

Piett did not like where this was going at all. "I beg Your Majesty's pardon?" he stammered.

"What," the Emperor repeated with spine-chilling deliberacy, "has your experience been of serving under Lord Vader?"

"I – that is, Your Majesty, I have always been impressed with Lord Vader's capacity as a combat commander. I can attest that my squadron has always functioned with chief efficiency under his direction, and undoubtedly strict observance of discipline has always been one of Lord Vader's – "

"I am not interested in your opinion of his performance," the Emperor cut him off. "I am interested in your opinion of him personally."

"P-personally, Your Majesty?" Naval officers did not have personal opinions of Darth Vader – not the ones who enjoyed breathing, that was.

"As the commander of his flagship," the Emperor pressed, "you have had a unique opportunity to observe him. Therefore I am asking you, Captain, whether I should continue to extend my trust towards Lord Vader."

Piett blanched. "Your Majesty, I – I don't think I'm the proper person to pass such judgment – "

"The answer to the question is either yes or no."

Piett imagined that he had the spine of a krakana and a mind like a durasteel trap. "Yes, Your Majesty."

"Indeed?" Suddenly the look in the Emperor's eyes had gone from being merely intimidating to downright terrifying. "I would not like to think you had given me an answer out of fear of Lord Vader," he continued conversationally. "After all, you will find that I have the power to either exact greater punishment or dispense greater mercy. Therefore I have taken the liberty of inviting one other guest for you to meet."

The side door whirred open and the bodyguard reappeared. He flung down on the carpet what had perhaps not very long ago been a man. The blood, burns, disfigurement, ragged breathing, and inability to stand made it difficult to tell.

"This man," the Emperor said above the low moans of the prisoner, "inadvisably chose to defy my authority and withhold information concerning treasonous activities. I suggest that you think long and hard before doing the same, Captain."

Piett stared at the human wreckage crumpled before him. Long minutes passed.

"Is that your _final _answer, Captain Piett?" the Emperor murmured.

Piett whispered, "No."

* * *

After the psychological hell of the past weeks, returning to the bridge of a hyper-capable warship was a vast relief. Clasping his hands behind his back, Captain Landre heaved a deep, cleansing breath and eased his eyes over the stars of the Borleias system. The bridge of the _Warlord _was cramped compared to that of any _Imperial_-class Destroyer, but the nimble _Victory_-class warship still boasted a finer view of space than the dirtside command center at Bast Castle. As great an honor as it was to serve as commander of Lord Vader's private security force in the Vjun system, the captain was properly a Navy man, and there was no place like home.

"Captain," his XO called from the far side of the bridge. "We have an incoming live response from Imperial Center."

Quickly Landre reached up to adjust his cap with one hand, then strode across the bridge to the com suite. He nodded, brisk and smart, at his XO and stepped inside the captain's com station, activating the security systems before accepting the call.

As expected, it was Lord Vader.

"My lord." He snapped an abbreviated bow. "As per your orders, the squadron has assumed a covert position in the extreme edge of the Borleias system and is prepared to hyper to Imperial Center within one hour."

"My orders?" Vader snarled.

Landre blinked and swore internally as momentum deserted him. "Yes, my lord – "

"Which orders do you imagine those to be?" the Dark Lord seethed.

Landre could only gape. "My lord – you contacted me by Holonet a few days ago and personally ordered me to muster the squadron and deploy to Borleias."

"Whoever contacted you" – Vader seemed somehow to loom larger than the projector's settings should have allowed – "or whoever you are pretending has contacted you, it was not me."

"My lord," Landre pleaded, "the call carried your personal encryption key! It could not have come from anywhere but the _Executor_'s com suite. Forgive me, but I spoke with you myself – there must be some mistake, I don't understand" – _think, Landre, _think_, you can't make it sound like you're accusing _him_ for Force's sake – _

Vader suddenly hammered a fist into his console, so violently that sparks flickered across the transmission image. "_Miyr_," he hissed.

"M-my lord?"

Such was the dark lord's fury that it was minutes before he responded, instead pacing tightly across the transmission zone and venting his wrath on the console a few more times. "Disregard it, Captain," he finally barked. "I will deal with the responsible party."

"My lord, I'm sure the administrator – "

"I ordered you to disregard it!"

Landre snapped his mouth shut, trying to ignore the cold crawling thing in his belly. There was nothing he could do to help the administrator; he'd only be loosening his own precarious grip on the crumbling precipice of Vader's favor.

"Now that you are here," Vader continued in a marginally less murderous tone, "I may as well make use of you. Your squadron is to make the jump immediately to Coruscant. Upon arrival you will rendezvous with the _Executor_, retrieve two passengers, and conduct them out of system back to Vjun. Do you think you can accomplish that much, Captain?"

Landre ordered himself not to wince at the shearing sarcasm. "It will be done, my lord."

"It certainly will," the Dark Lord fired in parting, "or your service in the Imperial Navy will have ended. I assure you your retirement benefits will be superfluous."

* * *

Throughout the last hours of the day cycle of the ship, until the chimes sounded and dimmed the lights into night cycle, and now for several hours more, Leia had sat motionless on her little bunk, Vader's shout ringing in her ears. The shock was so tremendous she couldn't even be angry. Her heart pounded – slow, so slow. Her mind lay blank with horror and incomprehension. Daddy, Mother, and Alderaan – even Ferus and Luke and his little sisters – seemed as if they had never existed at all. This one day had swelled up and filled her whole world; everything before it must have happened to someone else. Absently she twisted a fold of her jumpsuit between her fingers, staring at the black wall opposite.

Could it be?

Leia tried to consider the question rationally. But there was nothing to be rational about. How _could _it be true? How could that – that _demon _really be her father, after the things he had done to her? That would mean he'd known the whole time, that he'd used her anyway – threatened her _life _to hurt the people she loved – could even _Vader_ be so inhuman?

A few times, the consequence – that Luke and Sara and Sandra would be her siblings – tried to sooth her tormented mind, but the light of that thought was far too faint to drive back the shadow cast by Vader. Even absent, the terrible force of him shrouded her like that black, billowing cape. Maybe Luke and the little girls were nice, maybe she wouldn't even mind being their sister, but it was just a fantasy – had to be, because there was no way in heaven or any of the nine hells that _he _could be _her _father…

But then…why had he said it?

The door whirred open without warning and the lights came back on. Miyr, bringing her dinner. "Leia, I'm so sorry I forgot about your dinner – "

She stopped in her tracks as Leia pulled her eyes slowly up without budging her head. A deathly pallor wiped her face over. She put the tray down on the floor. "You heard him, didn't you?"

"Is it true?" Leia asked dully.

Miyr sat down next to her on the bunk, hands folded and leaning forward. "I only have Lord Vader's word for it myself."

"Do you believe him?"

"I believe that you are a point of unusual concern to him," Miyr hedged. "I've just spoken with him. He is sending a squadron to take you back to Bast Castle. You'll be leaving in an hour. He must be very concerned for your safety this close to the Emperor."

At Leia's bewildered expression, she added, "We're orbiting Imperial Center now."

"What if he's just worried my father will find out where I am?" Leia bit back.

"He's sending his personal physician with you, Dr. Siler," Miyr answered. "From that I have to conclude he does not trust your wellbeing to anyone else, which implies your wellbeing is of great importance to him."

Leia couldn't find a point at which to attack this argument, so instead she said, "But you're _not _coming. I thought you were supposed to be his babysitter."

"Administrator," Miyr corrected. "And I very much doubt you or any of his children will be seeing me again." She turned a wan, resigned smile on Leia. "I broke quite a few rules in the past few days, you see, and he's…not happy. In fact, you'd have more cause to be worried if I _were_ coming with you."

Leia worked her tongue over her dry cheek. "What did you do?"

Miyr's laugh was short and weak. "Something I had to."

"And...you mean he's going to…"

Miyr straightened and flicked a bit of escaped hair back into Leia's braid. "You're my concern, Princess, not the other way around. Let me worry about Lord Vader. You should eat. There isn't much time and Lord Vader was very clear that he wanted you out of the system as soon as possible. We'll meet the shuttle as soon as it docks. I'll get some things ready for you."

"Thank you," Leia said miserably. Miyr gave her hand a strong squeeze and left.

Once she'd closed the door, she leaned heavily against it. Vader had listened in dead silence to her brief, volunteered confession. Not even a reprimand – only icy passivity, followed by a dismissive _I will deal with you later_. Someone less familiar with the man might not have thought him to be remarkably angry. Oh, but he was – that she had been ordered to loiter on the _Executor _alone rather than returning to her duties at Bast Castle proved his presumptuous administrator would no doubt soon become his _ex-_administrator.

Unless she became his _late_ administrator instead.

* * *

Grand Admiral Octavian Grant was not delighted to see four uninvited _Victory_-class destroyers waltz into Imperial Center space, a fact he made no effort to conceal in his personal call to the squadron captain. Landre actually managed a smirk at his XO as he ended the conversation. "The Grand Admiral seems bent out of shape, doesn't he?"

"Can't imagine why, sir," his XO answered innocently. "We _do _have clearances from Lord Vader, after all."

Landre chuckled for the first time in weeks. All Navy officers were patriotic, but only the most zealous devotees of the New Order received the prestigious assignments to Capital Fleet. Grand Admiral Grant, commander of that fleet, possessed a rabid dedication to Imperial glory that quite possibly exceeded that of the Emperor himself. It was common knowledge that the admiral eyed Vader with suspicion at best; his flirtations with insubordination to the commander of the Imperial Navy were a fixture in the political editorials. Only Grant's unassailable loyalty to the Emperor had kept him out of the Dark Lord's stranglehold for so long.

Although forced to accept Landre's clearances, Grant evidently did not feel himself compelled to make the squadron's rendezvous with the _Executor_ any easier. The _Warlord_'s entire bridge was kept occupied by concerted harassment from Capital Fleet's com lieutenants, each with some petty complaint about the squadron's interference with patrol routes and traffic flow and regulation battle-readiness zones and a hundred other operating protocols. Thus distracted, nobody realized that a shadow was slipping around their sensors. If ComScan had noticed the anomaly, it might have concluded this shadow was a small ship, hiding in the sensor blind spot of the sublight engine interference of the last destroyer in the formation.

The stronger sensors of Capital Fleet could have examined the bogey more closely. But of course they had no way of knowing there were only supposed to be four ships in the squadron.

* * *

tbc


	53. Rather Short Notice

A/N: Alright, ladies, gentlemen, and all the rest of you - let the regular updates commence. :) Plan at the moment is to put up a new chapter about every three days so each post will have a chance to saturate a bit before the next comes. It may fluctuate a bit one way or the other as Darth Reality dictates (I do have a PAYING job, you know) but I shall try to keep to that rate. Without further interruptions from me...

* * *

CHAPTER 53

"Rather Short Notice"

* * *

It was a very long way from the room where Leia had been staying to the hangar bay. This ship must be monstrous even for a Star Destroyer. They didn't run into so much as a mouse droid the whole way, which sent shivery chills into Leia's bones. Her fears were confirmed when the great hangar bay proved to be abandoned except for the shuttle on which she would be leaving. Clearly Vader didn't want anyone knowing where she had gone. Whatever his reasons for that, she didn't like them.

As they approached the lowered base of the ramp, a lift on the other side of the hangar arrived and Dr. Siler scampered out, clutching his fluttering cap to his head with one hand and juggling several bags in the other. Distraught though she was, Leia had to laugh. He grinned back at her and not for the first time she wondered how such a pleasant person could have wound up as the personal physician of a man in strong contention for the title of Galaxy's Most Evil Despot.

"Rather short notice," he grumbled at Miyr.

"It usually is," she said calmly.

"Which doesn't make it any less of a nuisance," the doctor retorted. "Not to mention nonsensical. Sending _you_ back to Vjun I understand, but I'm his _attending physician_ for the Emperor's sake."

"I'm not going," Miyr said just as an officer and a pair of stormtroopers came out of the shuttle and ended any conversations. Siler's tight, downturned mouth relaxed at the corners as he made a slow, sympathetic nod.

"Madam Administrator," said the officer. "You will not be accompanying us?"

"No, Captain Landre," she said, turning crisply to him. "Dr. Siler and this young lady are your passengers. Doctor, she's in your charge now."

"I'm sure we'll get along famously," Siler said. The stormtroopers circled around and escorted them doubletime up the ramp. Leia turned back at the top and saw Miyr lean up close to the Captain, whispering something in his ear. He straightened abruptly and stiffly, glancing at Leia.

"And I do mean _any _measures, Captain," Miyr murmured as she leaned back, just loud enough for Leia's strained ears to catch. "Her secrecy and safety are paramount."

"I understand, Administrator," he said.

* * *

After the events of the last year and especially the last week, Landre had assumed he'd fathomed the uttermost depths of stress and wild anxiety. He hadn't known the half of it. As if having his head on the line for Lord Vader's three missing children was not enough to drive anyone to distraction, the Dark Lord had now upped the ante by handing yet a _fourth _child into his care.

Trouble was, Landre was fairly certain he wasn't supposed to be privy to that information. Something in the administrator's manner when she whispered the news in his ear warned him that she'd just disregarded an injunction from their yet-enraged master. This, just days after she'd brazenly broken Imperial law and – even worse – crossed the line of Vader's personal authority to summon his squadron to Coruscant in the first place!

It was no damned wonder Vader wasn't sending the administrator back to Vjun. She'd be lucky if she ever got off the _Executor_ alive.

The sole thing Landre could do for the administrator now was to get this third daughter of Vader's back to Vjun as fast as he could without setting so much as a toenail out of line. That way he could at least minimize the amount of anger that Miyr would have to face when the Dark Lord finally took her to task.

It would also be his one hope of redeeming himself from that same wrath.

Swallowing hard, he forced his thoughts away from that subject. The more terrified he was the more compromised his judgment would be, and therefore the poorer his chances of success. Besides, he reminded himself, he had had no real difficulty _entering _the Imperial system. No doubt Grand Admiral Grant would be thrilled to boot his squadron back into hyperspace. In fact he'd probably clear a least-time route out of the planet's gravity well specifically for their use. Once in hyperspace they'd be home free. Nothing to worry about.

The captain blew out a measured breath and studied the girl seated opposite him in the shuttle. How could someone so small be such a heavy burden on his mind? For that matter, how could the towering Lord Vader have fathered a girl of her diminutive stature? She didn't resemble her siblings either – dark brown hair, wide dark eyes. Perhaps she was only a half-sister? He automatically warned himself away from such dangerous conjectures; the girl curled her feet up and twisted round to look out the cabin viewport. The _Executor_'s prow was still in view, but steadily vanishing as the shuttle pressed on to the squadron's position further out from the planet. Next to her Dr. Siler kept up a stream of mutters as he rummaged through one of his bags, apparently trying to organize a hasty packing job.

A doctor and a girl. Landre flexed his fingers on his knees and made himself crack a small smile. All he had to do was take a doctor and a girl on a ride for a few lightyears. If chauffeurs could do it, so could he –

His train of thought derailed because a gigantic invisible hand had lifted him out of his seat and hammered him into the starboard bulkhead, which had somehow become the floor. _Forgot the crash webbing again, didn't you, you idiot, _his Academy safety instructor's voice seemed to echo from afar. The girl shrieked in alarm; Siler's bag soared away from him, striking Landre's shoulder and spewing its contents, as the doctor yelled something that would certainly have been inappropriate for a child's ears had it been translated into Basic. Finally the shuttle's artificial gravity generator caught up with the spiraling, accelerating dive its pilot had unaccountably performed; Landre tumbled forward and found himself sprawled across the deck.

He scrambled to his feet, grabbing the backrest of a chair and kicking Siler's bag away from his path as the shuttle lurched again. "You two!" he yelled at the stormtroopers in the next row. "Check the passengers! Double check for any loose articles!" Staggering from seat to seat, he forged his way to the cockpit, swearing under his breath and vowing to emasculate whatever sorry piece of Hutt slime had taken it into his thick skull to –

"What the hells is _that_?"

The entire cockpit viewport had been swallowed up by a gigantic mass of gray durasteel, like a city had sprung out of nowhere in the middle of space. The navigational officer caught him by the arm, then Landre was thrown over him as the shuttle wrenched aside again, its pilot desperately trying to avoid colliding with – with whatever that was –

"We don't know, sir," the nav officer gasped, "the damn thing just appeared out of fricking nowhere right the hell in front of us – "

"I'm getting readings on it now," the com officer added, hanging onto his armrest for dear life as the grav generator struggled to equalize the tremendous g-forces the pilot's maneuvers were producing. Considering they were at the edges of Imperial Center's gravity well by now, he must be redlining the engines on a near-180 course reversal to be overtaxing the generator like that. And _still _the edge of that blasted enormous _thing _did not appear –

"Sir," the com officer got out, "this can't be right – the sensors are saying this thing's the size of a class-four moon! Estimating a diameter of 160 klicks…" His voice trailed off as he mumbled, "But it transitioned out of hyperspace…had to…how…"

The grav generator finally drew even with their accel and Landre was able to pry himself off the nav officer and stagger towards the pilot. The gargantuan curve of the object's horizon appeared on the edge of the viewport.

"We'll clear them now, sir," the pilot said tightly. The copilot, a recent Academy graduate without the sangfroid of experience to sustain him, heaved a shaky sigh and wiped his hair back.

"Good work, Lieutenant," Landre told him, and patted the copilot's shoulder. He glanced over his shoulder at the com officer. "Contact the _Warlord_ and get a status report. Perhaps their sensors have a more complete picture."

The com officer shook himself and reached for the transmitter. "Imperial Star Destroyer _Warlord_, this is Imperial Shuttle _Nexus_. Captain Landre requests an immediate status report. Once again, _Warlord_ – "

The com crackled. "Imperial Shuttle _Nexus_," said someone who was certainly not the _Warlord_'s chief com officer, "this is ComScan Delta of Imperial DS-1 Orbital Battle Station. Transmit your identification code immediately."

The com officer went pale and stabbed in the code, having to stop and correct himself once or twice in his haste. "What the hell's an Imperial DS-whatever?" demanded the copilot.

"Holy fracking shavit," the pilot muttered. "That thing's a _battle station_?"

"Silence in the cabin," Landre ordered reflexively.

"Imperial Shuttle _Nexus_, your identity is confirmed," the com officer from the battle station told them. "You are ordered to adjust frequency to 3357A-12. Fall in with your unit and comply with all subsequent directives."

"Affirmative, Imperial Com – Imperial DS-station – "

"Imperial DS-1 Orbital Battle Station," snapped the voice. "Abbreviated reference code is Death Star. Death Star over and out."

"Get me the _Warlord, _Lieutenant, _now_," Landre barked.

He had no chance before the com crackled again. "Imperial Shuttle _Nexus_, this is Admiral Conan Motti," an imperious male voice barked. "Put Captain Landre on the com immediately."

They must have intercepted the transmission to the _Warlord_. Landre kicked the com officer out of his seat. "Admiral Motti, Captain Landre speaking."

"Captain, your identification code indicates that you are assigned to Battle Squadron 559, stationed in the Vjun system."

"That's correct, Admiral. We're on our way to rendezvous with our squadron, located at approximately 12-3-3 to your position."

"Under what orders have you deployed to Imperial Center?" snapped Motti.

"We received a special directive from Lord Vader, sir," Landre said carefully. "I can order the _Warlord _to send you the transmission record."

"What were your orders from Lord Vader?" demanded the other, ignoring his offer.

Landre drew a deep breath – he must fly with care here. Between this freak battle station and Lord Vader's wrath he had precious little space left to maneuver. "Specialized medical personnel transfer," he replied. It wasn't _that _big a stretch, and specialized medics from major capital ships often had to have emergency transfers if their unique skills were required elsewhere. No need to mention the girl.

There was a moment of silence before Motti answered. "Very well, Captain. Proceed to your squadron."

Landre breathed, "Thank you, sir – "

"As soon as you reboard you will notify the Death Star and fall into support formation with the rest of Capital Fleet," Motti continued.

Landre wiped a sudden sheen of cold sweat off his forehead. Thank the fates the transmission was voice-only. "Admiral Motti, my orders from Lord Vader explicitly state that we are to hyper out of system without delay."

"Those orders have been overridden," snapped the admiral.

"Admiral," Landre retorted, "with all due respect, you are not authorized to override direct orders from the commander of the Imperial Navy."

"Perhaps not," Motti told him sourly, "but the Emperor is."

"Sir?" whispered the pilot. Landre waved him on towards the _Warlord_.

"Admiral, without contravening written or direct verbal orders I am not authorized to deviate from Lord Vader's stated directives," he insisted as the shuttle shot around the horizon of the station and accelerated towards their squadron.

Yet another great jolt arrested their forward momentum. The com officer hit the deck as Landre seized the armrest of his seat. "Tractor beam, sir!" the pilot snapped in angry indignation, giving the controls one last wrench out of frustration.

"Admiral Motti, you are interfering with my orders!" Landre raged helplessly and desperately. "My squadron stands ordered to depart system _immediately_ – "

There was a click, cutting him off – had that damned admiral just _hung up _on him? – and then the com officer was back on line. "Imperial Shuttle _Nexus_, you will maintain com silence until you have touched down. Prepare for boarding and inspection. Death Star out."

* * *

The vista of space – Imperial Center sparkling like the queen of crown jewels it was, the velvet backdrop of vacuum flaked with crystal stars, the precise tri-dimensional ballet being enacted by the repositioning Capital Fleet, and beneath it all the grand game of politics, treachery and counter-treachery – oh, it was a splendid moment, and Grand Moff Wilhuff Tarkin had the best seat in the house. Perhaps the bridge of the _Executor_ could have afforded a more sweeping view, as aesthetic considerations had not been a priority of the Death Star's designers, but the _Executor_ was not sitting on the most formidable weapon the galaxy had ever known. Grand Moff Tarkin was – just a few hundred meters below his boots, in fact, where the northern arc of the emitter dish drew its ominous curve across the station's surface. His toes tingled with the latent energy pulsing in the mighty station's innards, his thoughts with the awareness that he could in the course of a few hours vaporize all signs of life in the entire system. The _Emperor himself _stood at Tarkin's mercy…

…presuming, of course, he was willing to kill the planet's one trillion permanent inhabitants to get to the man. The actual death toll would probably be three times that due to the hundreds of billions of transients and illegals on the planet's surface at any given time.

Tarkin smiled thinly to himself. No, alas; the destruction of Coruscant was unthinkable. It would constitute political suicide. While a powerful deterrent if properly exercised, one Death Star was not sufficient to keep the galaxy in line by itself. The structures of traditional authority could be pared back somewhat, but remained a necessary evil. And without the forceful personal authority of the Emperor, the decade-old Empire would probably splinter in short order.

Which meant allegiance to the man was still in the best interests of one Governor Tarkin. To work, then.

Admiral Motti was in the command conference room when he arrived, just finishing a holo-conversation with some aide. "Grand Moff," he said without preamble, "I've verified the military forces in system. Capital Fleet is all accounted for and assuming supportive formation."

"And the _Executor_?" Tarkin asked, flipping through the brief report Motti handed him.

"Holding station outside planetary orbit as ordered," Motti assured him. "Captain Piett did not object. No word from Lord Vader as yet."

Tarkin nodded. Not surprising, considering it was the middle of the night in Imperial City and no one wanted to be first to disturb the Sith's slumber. "So no anomalies."

"There's one, sir. A small squadron of _Victory_-class destroyers was positioned near our entry point. According to the Fleet database they're assigned to the Vjun system. They can't have arrived long ago if our orders from Imperial Center didn't record their presence in the system."

"Vjun? Then they're Vader's," murmured Tarkin. "What are they doing here?"

"They claim it's a medical personnel transfer from the _Executor_," Motti said.

"Plausible enough."

"Perhaps, sir, but that doesn't explain why one of their destroyers opened fire on us as we entered the system."

Tarkin raised an eyebrow at that information, but brushed it aside. "A reflexive response to an unidentified potential threat. I trust they _ceased _fire."

"Almost immediately," Motti admitted. "But the squadron commander is refusing to maneuver his squadron into support formation and insists on following Lord Vader's orders to hyper immediately out of system. _And _our trackers identified a smaller ship accelerating away from the squadron towards the planet. He could be attempting to send some sort of covert message to Vader."

Tarkin considered for a brief moment. "Perhaps I should speak with this commander."

"I can arrange that," Motti said, glancing at the screen of his com. "His shuttle has just been tractored aboard."

Tarkin bestowed a disappointing frown as they headed together for the turbolift. "A little courtesy, Admiral," he said. "The commander is, after all, a fellow Navy officer."

"He's Vader's man," Motti snarled in response. "What else do we need to know?"

Tarkin had to concede the point.

* * *

"What's going on?" the girl demanded when Landre reappeared in the passenger cabin. She had gotten out of her crash webbing and was impatiently enduring a quick examination from Siler. The sudden ferocity in her brown eyes did away with Landre's doubts that she could really be Vader's daughter. He'd recognize that temper anywhere.

"We're being stopped for boarding and examination," he said. "Dr. Siler, we've told them our business in system is to transfer you. Tell me you can think of a good reason we're doing that."

Siler's bushy eyebrows folded over his urchin-like grin. "_Think_ of a reason? I've already got one."

"Good," said Landre. "She's your patient, understood?"

Siler nodded. The girl crossed her arms with a scowl.

"Who is _them_?" she spat. "And what makes you think I'm going to put on any kind of act for you and _Vader_?"

That was when Landre realized the situation was far more complicated than even Miyr had told him. The girl was Vader's daughter, but apparently hated him, or possibly seemed not even to _know_ –

Siler emerged from his bag with a hypodermic needle and planted it deep in the girl's neck before she or Landre could object. A short gasp later she collapsed unconscious into the seat. At a wave from the doctor one of the stormtroopers retrieved the hoverstretcher from the onboard med kit. The girl was hoisted onto it. While the shuttle thudded down on a hangar deck Siler rapidly attached diagnostic readouts and monitors and tucked his oblivious patient under a blanket. "I think she'll cooperate now," he said to Landre with a wry grin.

The ramp lowered. Landre tugged nervously at his cap. "I hope so."

They started out of the shuttle and were met by a stormtrooper squad in full armor, blasters at the ready though not actually trained on him. Landre heard Siler start railing at the squad commander about delays and the serious condition of his patient and Lord Vader's displeasure if he lost her. Across the bay two officers stood waiting, and as he approached he discerned the unwelcome bar insignias of an admiral and a grand moff.

"Grand Moff, Admiral." He dug down deep, beating back anxiety and scraping up as much indignation as he had. "When word of this reaches Lord Vader – "

"Lord Vader is not my concern," the Grand Moff said smugly. "I am Grand Moff Tarkin, the commander of this battle station, and my orders come from the Emperor personally. You had best cease playing with fire, Captain…?"

"Landre," supplied the other, who must be Admiral Motti.

"Your squadron seems to be in a tremendous hurry, Captain Landre," Tarkin continued with lethal courtesy. "An explanation would be in order."

At that Siler spoke up from his position bent over the stretcher and the unconscious girl. "I'm Lord Vader's personal physician," he barked, "and there is an urgent case in Vjun requiring my particular skills. Not to mention the one I'm currently trying not to lose, no thanks to all of you" – his fearsome glare would have set Vader on edge – "so unless you want to make the explanations to him yourself I hope to hell you plan on letting us out of here ASAP."

"And what patient," Tarkin replied, "is at Vjun requiring which of yourskills?"

"A Jedi prisoner," Siler retorted. "And if you can find another physician trained to treat metaphysical injuries I'll give him my job."

"_Metaphysical_ injuries?" murmured Motti, looking much less sure of himself.

"I did a practicum with the Jedi Order's healers before the Empire," Siler snapped, turning back to his supposedly critical patient. "If you want to explain to Lord Vader why a prisoner with critical information about the location of other Jedi fugitives died while you detained the only doctor left in the galaxy who could treat him, be my guest. At the very least get me to a real medbay with _this _one."

Tarkin's expression had gotten cold – plainly things weren't going his way – and Landre began to be hopeful. Siler's story was credible enough that _he _almost felt convinced of it.

"And what about _that _prisoner?" the grand moff demanded, switching his gaze to the stretcher. "Another Jedi?"

"Damned if I know," Siler retorted. "I don't ask questions when Vader tells me to treat somebody. It's bad for life expectancy."

Motti shifted and tried to murmur something to Tarkin, but the grand moff's eagle gaze was still on the girl with eerie fixation. Sharply he stepped over and turned her face up. Then he jerked upright with a cold smile.

"How very interesting," he purred. "Come take a look, Admiral. Do you recognize this girl?"

Motti scowled. "Of course not, why would – "

"This," Tarkin continued with terrifying cheer, "is Princess Leia Organa."

"She certainly isn't!" Landre snapped, belatedly realizing that he didn't in fact know what the girl's name was. But she was _Vader_'s daughter, that he did know, and how could she have two fathers at once?

"Don't lie to me, Captain," Tarkin murmured. "I have met the Princess myself previously." An ugly shadow flitted over his expression.

"_Bail _Organa's daughter?" Motti spat. "What's she doing here?"

"I can't say for certain," Tarkin said. He prowled back to Landre. "What I _do _know," he told the captain, "is that just days ago the Emperor informed me Lord Vader was under suspicion of treason. And as you surely know, Admiral, Imperial Intelligence has long suspected Bail Organa of complicity in the rebel movements. I can only conclude that Lord Vader has chosen to collaborate with Organa." The eerie light in his eyes intensified as he stepped back from Landre. "A collaboration in which this man is knowingly complicit."

"No," Landre rasped, reeling from the sudden twist. "That's not – "

"Relay my orders to Captain Terang to eradicate the squadron," Tarkin said to the stormtrooper commander. "No doubt they are attempting to summon forces to Lord Vader's aid. Your men will escort the doctor and his charming young patient to the detention block. And as for you, Captain – "

Landre had been trying to brainstorm a convincing denial – anything to get the girl out of this hellhole, out of the system – but a muzzle snapped up, aligned with his eyes, and an agonizing blaze of red and heat wiped thought away forever.

* * *

By the time a bank of enormous turbolasers opened catastrophic fire on the four Destroyers of Battle Squadron 559, the small ship which had split off at breakneck speed had vanished into the melee of panicking orbital traffic and could not be pinpointed for destruction by the station's gunners. To at least one of the passengers, this was precious little consolation.

"Artoo, we're doomed! Oh, please, let's get out of here!"

Connected to the computer nearest the pilot's seat in the _Millennium Falcon's _cockpit, Artoo-Detoo swiveled his dome and emitted a condescending twitter.

"Oh, that's perfectly fine for _you _to say! This was _your_ idea in the first place! I _told _you to stay out of the castle's central computer, but you wouldn't listen –

Artoo spat a long string of whistles and beeps.

"Yes, I realize we wouldn't have known about the Princess' capture if you hadn't broken into Lord Vader's private communication files," Threepio conceded angrily. "But you're not _supposed _to search his files! They're classified! And besides, we belong to Lord Vader and Master Luke! The Princess isn't our _concern_!"

The astromech responded with a violent eruption of squeals.

"What do you mean, Bail Organa sent us to watch out for Master Luke? Now you're just having delusions, you ridiculous scrap heap!"

Artoo's answer sounded eerily like a human snort.

"Besides, how can you be sure the Princess was aboard the _Executor _in the first place? This theory of yours that Captain Landre was coming to get her is all conjecture, you know."

Artoo swung the ship around a pair of Rendili cargo freighters, chortling the while.

"Well, yes, I know you intercepted the call from Lord Vader while we were in Borleias, but he didn't specifically _mention_ the Princess – "

A reel of chirps and beeps cut him off.

"Alright, _and _you intercepted the conversation between the shuttle and that horrible station, but he _still _didn't – what do you mean, you ran a bioscan on the shuttle? How did you do that?"

Artoo accompanied his response with a swivel of his dome that was decidedly smug.

"The _Falcon_ has a smuggler's sensor suite?" Threepio sounded rather faint. "However did Master Solo get one of those?"

An indifferent bleep, then a prolonged chain of twittering.

"And you _know _a small human female was on board?" Threepio straightened in the copilot's seat, only partially convinced. After all, at such a distance…

Artoo spun his dome and screeched indignation as the _Falcon_ swooped across the path of several cargo modules tractored to a freighter.

"Well, of course it couldn't have been anyone else!" Threepio retorted. "Oh, do watch _out _Artoo!" The freighter had shot over the hull of a panicky passenger liner with just meters to spare. "But even so we can't do anything about it! She'll be on that horrible space station now! We can't fight legions of stormtroopers on our own!"

As the _Falcon _settled in deep amongst the crowd of frightened orbital traffic, slowing into the flow, Artoo heaved a depressed beep of agreement.

* * *

tbc...


	54. The Sleeping Dragon Blinks

CHAPTER 54

"The Sleeping Dragon Blinks"

* * *

Going up the turbolift shaft Mara had shown him was tricky business. Through the lower levels Luke was able to use the grappling attachment freely to tow himself up several levels at a time, but as he got higher the turbolift cars began whooshing by and he had to be extremely careful that he didn't swing on his line and get mashed by one of them. Finally there were so many he just stowed the blaster and climbed on his own power. It was a long, long way. He had to stop for rests with increasing frequency, leaning against the ladder.

It gave him time to wonder about Mara. He'd suspected from the second he saw her that she was a Jedi apprentice on the lam, what with the lightsaber. After she levitated the plug of duracrete she'd cut through the bottom of the turbolift shaft, Luke was sure of it. He was going to have to tell Yoda; hopefully they could find her once they got out with Han and then –

Then what? Back to his father? Off with Yoda to become a really strong Jedi so he could really help his father? What about Sara and Sandra? Baranne had been on the right track, but it was a long way to the industrial district and he might not find them without Luke's help. What should he do? And what about Mara? His father hated Jedi; he wouldn't be happy to see her. She at least would have to go with Yoda, because they couldn't possibly leave her on Coruscant. Who knew what terrible things the Emperor might do if he ever got hold of her?

Who knew what terrible things the Emperor was doing to _Han_?

Luke shut his eyes tight and wiped grime out of his face with one hand, trying not to think too much about that. He was on his way, and he'd get there when he got there. Since he didn't know how to reach his father's castle, and since it was just too far to go on his bruised bare feet, he'd have to try and find someplace to hide in Imperial Palace until his father put in an appearance. It was where the Emperor lived, and his father's job was working for the Emperor, so he had to come here eventually. Probably there'd be places in the secret passages Mara had mentioned. Luke drew a deep breath and started up the ladder again, hugging himself against it as another car hurtled past.

It seemed to take hours and he hurt all over, but finally he reached the special secret exit Mara had told him about. It was a dangerous jump across the shaft from the ladder. Mara must have done it with the Force, which was taking a tremendous risk; Luke decided to use the grappling line instead. But the line didn't retract as fast as he needed and his body slammed hard into the shaft just below the lip of the entrance. He yelped as it kept retracting, scraping his knuckles bloody against the rough wall, but he didn't dare slow it down. And a good thing, too; he would have been smeared to goo by the car that shot past an instant after he clambered over the ledge.

Luke gasped for steadying air and sucked his bleeding knuckles. Then he detached the end of the grappling line and started down the secret passage, stumbling and tired and increasingly hungry. Why hadn't he thought to pack up some snacks? Staggering, he found a turbolift and took it because riding up meant he would get to rest. He didn't know where he was going, other than up. Up was where important people lived on Coruscant, so up was where his father would be. Other than that he followed the gentle promptings of the Force without question as they led him an odd criss-cross of detours.

He hadn't expected there to be so many secret passages in the Emperor's palace. Although right now they were mostly empty and the Force warned him in time to hide from anyone else who came along, his senses told him that just in the past day hundreds of people had come along them. Their auras left a sort of mist in the air; at times Luke even thought he picked out an echo of Master Yoda, but felt so weary he couldn't be sure. He finally checked his chrono. Was it really three am? No wonder he was so tired. And no wonder there was no one else around –

Still busy staring at his chrono, Luke walked straight into the wall at the end of the passage. Whimpering and rubbing his nose, he tried turning left, then right, only to meet with more wall. He switched on the sighting beam of his blaster and looked back the way he'd come; just a brief hall leading straight from a little secret turbolift.

Well, not even the Emperor would have built a secret turbolift just for the fun of it, so there must be a way out. Luke pressed around the wall and finally his fingers landed on a keypad. Looked like he needed some passcode to get through. Had he been less bleary from exertion and lack of sleep and food, he'd probably have stood baffled for ages, afraid that trying a wrong code would set off an alarm. Instead his hand typed in a series of numbers in passive response to a prompting from the Force. Without fuss a narrow panel of the wall shot up and let him into the room beyond.

Luke turned around in stupefaction. It was a really _big _room. Possibly the biggest room he'd ever seen. The domed ceiling must be hundreds of feet above him, though maybe if the lighting hadn't been dimmed for the night it wouldn't have seemed so far away. In the center of the ceiling was a grand skylight, through which the flashing lights of the nighttime traffic beamed down and painted a great throne-like chair in eerie reds and greens and blues.

Luke's gaze traveled down with the lights and wandered around the room. He was on some sort of balcony level. A broad stairway led up to it from the level below – a vast expanse of luminous green marble which stretched away to a ponderous pair of engraved double doors. Above them, embossed on the great wall and shining with scarlet enamel and gilding, was an enormous Imperial seal. Reflexively Luke tightened his shielding as much as he could, so that no one could even tell he existed in the Force, and looked back at the huge black chair. Now he saw that behind it the wall was hung with tapestries and drapes from floor to ceiling, the foremost hanging being a gigantic Imperial flag.

This had to be the throne room.

Not a good place to hide. Luke stumbled around, with every intention of going back to the secret passage and finding someplace else to hide. Except there _wasn't _an entrance anymore. His panel had dropped back into its place while he stared around and he couldn't for the life of him find any outline of it. Wildly he searched the wall for a keypad. There wasn't one – just blank paneled wall. Back and forth along the wall he ran, weariness now absent, but the Force held its silence.

No way out.

Luke wiped a shaky hand over his forehead. That wasn't quite true, he reminded himself. There was at least _one _other way out, straight through those double doors. Maybe at this time of the night no one would be around. It took a surprising amount of courage to venture down the huge staircase and across the great exposed floor. He only got halfway across, though, before his senses warned him there were two men outside. They must be guards. He dashed under cover of the stairs, shivering, in case one of them decided to check inside.

Wait – there was another door over there, smaller, deftly camouflaged in the paneling and hidden beneath the shadow of the dais so as not to attract attention. It couldn't be an entrance to a secret passage, though; if _he_ could notice there was a door, real spies sure could. But there was something cold about it that made Luke decide he was better off staying away. Besides, it would be guarded too –

Then the coldness stiffened, sharpened, and a gasp jerked Luke's spine. It was _somebody_, coming closer! Coming _here_ –

Luke had dashed halfway back up the stairs before he realized where he was going. His only thought had been to get as far away from the door as possible, away from that awful blackness prodding his sense of danger. But if anything he'd be even more exposed up here – too late to go back down, though –

Then Luke spotted the huge, heavy drapes decorating the wall behind the throne. He ran the rest of the way up, sprinted around the throne, and dove behind a huge red swath of thick fabric in the extreme corner, where it pooled on the floor and would hide even his feet. Stupid, _stupid_, did he actually think he would get away with something as obvious as _hiding behind a curtain_?

But there simply was nowhere else to hide up here. And with any luck whoever was coming wouldn't have any reason to think someone was there. Luke sat down and packed himself into the corner, hugging his knees and forcing his breathing to stay quiet and scrunching his shields tighter than he ever had. It was more than his exhausted brain could manage by itself; he was borrowing on adrenaline, and it was going to hurt later, but if he didn't make himself invisible there might not be a later. His father wouldn't be able to sense him, not if he was standing right outside the drape. Even _Obi-Wan _wouldn't have noticed him probably.

He just hoped the Emperor wouldn't either.

* * *

The architects who had designed the crowning spire of Imperial Palace had had a great many grandiose ideas about where in the upper throne room the Emperor's personal entrance ought to be placed. None of them had agreed with any of their colleagues' proposals. All of them had been thunderstruck when the Emperor categorically declared that the entrance would be on the lower left-hand side of the room, in the shadow of the dais. Imperial Center had rung from ground to skyhook with their indignant protests at the idea of the ruler of the galaxy having to sneak in a side door and climb whole flights of stairs to his own throne as if he were another supplicant himself.

As he proceeded up those stairs now, the Emperor permitted himself a rare cackle. Pompously staged clichés were all well and good for the public audience chamber, where he arrived at his throne by means of a glide ramp, descending from what appeared to be the ceiling in a halo of light. But here in his personal sanctum he emerged from the shadows and mounted to the seat of ultimate power under his own strength, assisted by no one. Every entry into this private throne room was a ritual reenactment of his great triumph and an assertion of total dominance. By far the more satisfactory arrangement, whatever the opinions of his architects.

Settling himself in the throne, he took a moment to survey the dimmed expanse of the chamber and wondered whether its austere perfection would survive the next few hours. Like a great many other things it would depend upon Vader.

Once brought face to face with the fate that awaited a rebel, Captain Piett's none too solid devotion to Vader had dissolved in halting confessions. As suspected, the man was complicit with Thrawn – not to mention several thousand other senior Navy officers whose names were already in the hands of his investigators. Them he would deal with later. Whatever might and cunning Thrawn would bring when he arrived in system no longer concerned Palpatine; Tarkin and the Death Star, having reached Imperial Center not five minutes ago, would pulverize him and his brilliance into meteor dust. No – the deadliest concern was Vader.

An ugly, silent snarl twisted the Emperor's features. Vader's offense was not the deadly deception which he had been employing for perhaps years now against his master. In fact, Palpatine could even admit a sort of perverse pride in the man on that point; deception was the hallmark of a true Sith, and a betrayal of the master merely the logical culmination of the apprentice's training. No – what was unforgivable was the motivation.

Love.

The first allegiance which the erstwhile Jedi had sworn to _him_, allegiance that had taken him more than a decade to win, had been hijacked in an instant by a mere child. All Luke Skywalker had had to do to claim Darth Vader's loyalty was _exist_. And why? Purely because the brat was the son of Padmé Amidala. The very leverage he had applied to force Anakin into his grip had now wrested him back out. It was beyond galling. It was intolerable.

It would end _tonight_.

He depressed the com key on his armrest to speak to his aide. "Summon Lord Vader and young Skywalker to my audience chamber immediately."

* * *

Just days away now. Each minute that Lord Vader was forced to pretend the galaxy as everyone knew it was not about to undergo a rending convulsion, potentially akin to the devastation surrounding the Empire's birth, seemed to drag on for a year. So how, _how _could he be so frantic about having no _time_? It was the _waiting, _the thrice-bedamned _waiting_ – waiting for Baranne to make a report on his search through the underbelly of Coruscant, waiting for his searchers to find his children, waiting for Thrawn and his perverse alliance to attack, waiting the eternal hours that stood between him and the planned assault against his treacherous master.

Fear cornered him, crouching on every side amidst the foliage of the garden as he passed. He was not ready to take on Palpatine. Ferus Olin was a shaky ally at best. And if he should fail – what of his children? The best he could hope for them if they landed in the Emperor's clutches was this same trap he was about to risk everything to escape. At worst…

A surge of frustration exploded out of him and several priceless dnabi vines blasted away from their host trees. His chief gardener would have a stroke when he discovered the damage in the morning. Vader felt little sympathy for him. The botanical garden at the top of his castle had only been included in the first place because his architect insisted that gigantic personal starscrapers without lush gardens were not taken seriously on Coruscant. The sole use Vader himself had ever had for it was storming around it in the middle of nights like this one and venting his wrath.

No doubt that was why the aide on night duty was shaking in his boots when he appeared around the bend.

"A summons from the Emperor, my lord," he squeaked before Vader could do anything lethal to him.

Vader froze, forgetting any murderous intentions he might have had a moment ago. "At this time of night?" he murmured.

"Yes, my lord – both you and Skywalker, immediately."

_Damn_.

"Inform the Emperor that we will arrive within the hour," Vader ordered, already rushing towards the exit. Given the time, an hour's delay was plausible enough; for all Palpatine knew he was in his hyperbaric chamber and unable to depart before re-encasing himself in his armor. That would have made it impossible for him to be at Imperial Palace in less than half an hour, and the sheer inconvenience of it justified him in being extra slow out of plain annoyance.

Of course, taking an hour to arrive when the command had been _immediately_ guaranteed him the Emperor's displeasure. But if the Emperor was summoning him and the boy impersonating his son at such an ungodly hour, Vader had already incited that displeasure. Seriously.

Palpatine had found out _something_ of their plans, he reflected as he punched a number feverishly into his comlink. There could be no other explanation for this, not if Palpatine was demanding the presence of the boy. But he might not know _everything_. Thrawn might not arrive for days yet, but Vader could not wait for him. This was now the best chance he would get.

"Lieutenant Marsk," the voice of Ferus Olin said over his comlink's speaker. After reporting that he had discovered a suitable alternative entrance into the private throne room, the Jedi had dropped in among his personal aides to lurk until the proper time.

"I am still waiting for your report, Lieutenant," Vader growled at him. "If I do not receive it within one hour there will be dire consequences."

A fraught silence stretched for a heartbeat on the other end as Olin recognized the covert order to position himself for action. "I can have it to you in forty-five minutes, my lord," he answered.

"Do so." Vader ended the call as he barged through the entrance of his quarters, making a beeline for the room where he had stashed Solo. The boy was sprawled over the cot with arms draping on the floor. He seized a shoulder and gave it a far harder shake than necessary. "Up, Solo!"

"Gah—wha—gerroff me!" Solo lurched up, taking a half-conscious swing at him. Vader spotted a water glass on the floor nearby and upended it over the Corellian's head.

"What the _hells_ was that for?" the now-fully-awake ingrate spluttered at him.

"Dry off and get dressed," he barked. "We have been summoned by the Emperor."

Solo stared at him insensibly for almost a minute before looking at his wrist chrono. "It's frigging _three am_," he moaned. "Doesn't the walking corpse need his beauty sleep?"

Vader seized him by the back of the neck and hurled him to his feet. "I have no patience for your stupidity now," he snarled, his grip tightening hard enough to snap a smaller neck. "You will shut your mouth and you will _do as I say_."

Solo paled and nodded, hands raised, the rest of him deathly still until Vader released him. "I'm going, I'm _going_, okay?"

Vader didn't bother with an answer; Solo's entire existence was peripheral in comparison to the unknown suddenly facing him. He must move, must move now, or risk losing his best opportunity to catch Palpatine unawares. But what game was the cunning old master playing?

That he was playing a game was self-evident. An urgent summons in the middle of the night cycle, no reason given? If he had only summoned Vader, it could easily have been some sort of crisis; but by demanding the boy's presence as well the Emperor had as good as made a verbal declaration that his apprentice was under suspicion. Never before in Vader's experience had Palpatine been known to fire warning shots, yet that was what he'd just done. Perhaps it was only a test to see how Vader would respond to such an implicit accusation. Or perhaps he knew that Vader would seize the opening for an attack and had laid a trap…perhaps, perhaps…

He growled at himself, hauling his mind away from such questions. They would only send him spiraling into confusion when clarity of mind was critical. As long as he was delaying to give his Jedi accomplice Olin time to reach his position, he had better check to see whether Landre had retrieved Leia and Siler from the _Executor_. He stepped into his private com suite and keyed the codes for the _Warlord_.

The call dropped.

Vader tried it twice more in rising horror, but the signal refused to reach the _Warlord_. There were only two reasons for that: either the ship was in hyperspace, or it no longer existed. According to his chrono and calculations the squadron _could_ be back in hyperspace already, but there had been no notification from Landre as he'd requested –

The projector chimed; incoming call from the _Executor_. Miyr – whiter than flimsiplast.

"My lord, I don't know if anyone has been able to reach you yet," she got out with some difficulty, "but I've been watching the sensor screens in your office and the Princess did not reach the _Warlord_."

His stomach plunged and his rage soared. "What?" The word cracked like the fingertip of a whip out of his mouth.

"That's the good part," Miyr said grimly, "because the _Warlord _was just vaporized, as were the other ships of Captain Landre's squadron."

"_Where is she?" _

"His shuttle was intercepted before he got to the squadron," said Miyr, "by _that_."

The display shifted to a shot of his sensor screen, featuring a holographic display of the system. Most of the ships of the Capital Fleet were little specks; the splinter that was the _Executor_ he glimpsed for half a second before all his attention was riveted on a huge moon-sized orb approaching from the outer system.

"It's some sort of Imperial battle station," Miyr's voice continued. "It dropped out of hyperspace about ten minutes ago. Do you recognize it?"

"I recognize it," Vader rasped. "Remain at your station. I will deal with this."

So this was Palpatine's wild card.

The turbolaser, as per the last classified report, was not yet operational. But that report was a few weeks old. It was possible that the project directors could have rushed production and attained some measure of partial operating capacity. To what extent? Even without the superlaser the station still packed enough energy mounts and fighter squadrons to stop Thrawn's forces in their tracks. And Leia aboard that station…if Tarkin or Palpatine suspected whose daughter she really was…

He forced the thought from his mind. There was nothing better he could do for Leia now but what he was already planning to do. Only by decapitating the dragon could he hope to stop it from breathing fire.

* * *

Ferus Olin took off at a flat-out sprint for the secret turbolift that marked the start of his journey. There was no time for looking casual. He had mere minutes to make a long trip on foot, and somehow he had to fit in enough time to fetch Master Yoda. At his incautious pace he ran into three power techs on his route through the energy core walkways, all of whom he was forced to club into unconsciousness. No doubt when they woke up they'd have plenty of questions why a uniformed Navy lieutenant with an administration badge had been streaking through the restricted-access energy sector.

But by the time that happened, the game would be up. With his lightsaber stashed in a blaster holster, odds were none of them had recognized the weapon, and even if they had he very much doubted one of these power techs was going to recover, put two and two together, and get that information up to the Emperor before Ferus himself was standing in front of said galactic despot brandishing said lightsaber.

He checked his wrist device. He was in the Palace, and not far from that maintenance closet where Master Yoda had concealed himself in the pipeline. Once the two of them had gotten into the secret passages he'd ditch the jacket and holster; improve freedom of movement. After that they could probably cover the distance to their impromptu throne room entrance in about fifteen minutes. Ferus groaned as he noted the time.

They'd have to be faster than that.

_I have a bad feeling about this. _

He burst through the hatch of the maintenance closet on a direct vector for the pipeline – a vector which took him through what he thought was a cloud of blue mist. Halfway into it he staggered aside as a shockwave of eerie electric sensations bombarded his mind. He spun around, backed away, and found himself facing not a blue mist but the serene, ghostly shade of Obi-Wan Kenobi.

In the first instant, old childhood memories shot to life – Master Kenobi, the good friend of Master Siri. Master Kenobi, teacher of his rival Anakin Skywalker, supervising another barely-civilized training duel. Master Kenobi, the great warrior of the Republic –

In the second instant, his hopes soared – with Master Kenobi at their side, the Emperor didn't stand a _chance_, he might as well drop dead now –

In the third instant, he realized he'd just run right through Master Kenobi as if he were nothing but a memory.

"Hello, young Ferus," Obi-Wan said.

"What are you?" Ferus whispered. "What – what _happened _to you?"

"The same thing that happens to all living beings in time," Kenobi answered.

"You mean you're _dead_."

"No death is there, young Olin," Yoda chided, emerging from the pipline. "Only the Force."

"Have you come to help us?" Ferus breathed.

Obi-Wan's easy smile faded. "Not the help you desire, I'm afraid. If you go to face Vader and the Emperor, you must do it alone. I cannot interfere."

"Master – please! There must be something that – "

"The Force will be with you, Ferus Olin," Obi-Wan told him, tucking his hands into his ethereal robe. "And we with it."

The words resounded through the cramped closet as though through space and the Force reverberated and hummed. Though he couldn't see any difference, Ferus sensed the room fill with its currents and glow – and friends long lost seemed to call to him from it. _Master Siri? _he whispered. A faint warmth and a rush of cheerful encouragement brushed at his back; he didn't dare glance back, desperate to make the touch across eternity last.

It faded. He opened his eyes. He and Yoda stood alone in a pitiful closet again.

"I'm ready now, Master," he said.

"Then quickly we must go!" the old master told him, bustling towards the hatch.

* * *

After threatening Han with his life if he wasn't dressed to impress within two minutes, the Dark Lord of the Sulk proceeded to waste about the next half an hour stalking back and forth across the front room, fingering his lightsaber obsessively and verging on explosion whenever Han twitched in his seat. Right about the time he had begun to hope they'd never actually leave, Vader jerked him up with the Force and hurtled out the door, dragging him the whole way to the hangar where the shuttle scooped them up and screamed away before the Sith had shoved him into a bucket seat. His one attempt to ask a question had ended in near strangulation.

Call him paranoid, but he had decided that Something Was Up.

Possibly the jig, if the Emperor was involved in it. Terrifying as that prospect was, it turned out that the spectacle of a nervous Darth Vader was what really had Han quivering in his brand-new socks. Having lived in his palace for a while Han could testify that the old zombie freaked him out – but if he also freaked _Vader_ out, then they were in a pit of poodoo the likes of which Han Solo had previously not imagined. Up till now the foe of his worst nightmares had been Vader. The revelation that someone existed who could give his _nightmares_ nightmares was one he could have lived without.

Especially now, because unless Han was very much mistaken those preposterously huge doors guarded by a full phalanx of the red-robed Imperial Guard were the only thing standing between him and that someone. Thank Luke's Force they were shut. Now if only they'd stay that way forever –

"Open the door," Vader snarled at the bodyguard who appeared to be in charge.

"State your identity and business with the Emperor," the bodyguard returned, planting his Force pike a little more obstinately on the floor.

Han could have told him this was not the time for getting in Vader's way, except for the fact that Vader had promised to ignite a lightsaber blade through his mouth if he opened it. So instead he just watched as the Force pike rocketed off the floor, twisted, and cracked across the bodyguard's skull so hard the helmet split down the side. The man crumpled aside, perhaps not dead but definitely brain-damaged.

"Open. The. Door." Vader loomed over the second-in-command, ignoring the two dozen Force pikes now leveled at him. That they were also leveled at Han he either didn't notice or more likely didn't care.

At this point Han thought the head goon would sooner skewer them than let them see His Senility, but pointing this out to Vader could be just as lethal.

Before anything catastrophic could happen, the guard suddenly touched a hand to the side of his helmet as though listening to an ear bug. Then he waved his men down and touched the door control. Though the masks hid any expression, they nonetheless looked very peeved about the new orders, and the idea of staying out here with them gave Han enough motivation to tail Vader into the lion's den instead.

Like he'd thought, they were back in the throne room; there was that side door he'd come in through last time. Han flinched as the ponderous main doors labored shut once more, leaving him with nowhere to go but forward, then up the stairs, and finally onto his knees next to Vader. The Emperor regarded them from the throne. Silence stretched as if on a torture rack.

Han risked a quick glance up. He didn't _look_ like someone who'd just found out his right-hand henchman and a teenage Corellian nobody had been playing him for a fool.

"Ah, my friends," he said.

Didn't sound like it either.

"Your promptitude at such an inconvenient hour is appreciated," the Emperor continued, now sounding dangerously dry. Han shifted on his kneecaps and glanced sideways at Vader. They could have gotten here at least half an hour faster, and why they hadn't he couldn't begin to guess.

Vader made no excuses; his temper, which had been hanging by one loose hinge moments before, had now iced over. Han would have been happier if the man had been blazing mad still. This tight-leashed inexpression was not like Vader at all. He didn't know what it meant, but he doubted it was good.

Palpatine kept them on the floor for a minute longer before gesturing them back onto their feet and standing himself. "I am afraid this situation could not wait until morning," he continued amiably, meandering toward a projection unit set tucked away in one corner of the dais. "We have much to celebrate, and I thought it only fitting that both of you be my guests for this auspicious event."

Vader stooped to asking the obvious question. "What event is this, Master?"

"The completion," Palpatine said through a nexu's grin, "of one of our most seminal projects." He switched the projection on.

Han's eyes bulged as he recognized a tri-dimensional sensor display, presenting in miniature the entire Coruscant system. The planet, and lots of little specks for the ships – and then there was _that thing_.

He might not have a navigator's certificate, but Han Solo knew damned well that Coruscant did not have a class-IV moon just beyond its gravity well. Or at least it _hadn't_.

"Forgive me, my friend," Palpatine continued, addressing Vader with the air of a mischievous older sibling playing a prank, "but I could not resist the opportunity to surprise you. Our magnificent Death Star."

"What's a Death Star?" Han bleated, forgetting in his shock that Vader's orders about imagining his mouth as a black hole still stood.

"A battle station, my young friend," the Emperor told him benignly. "A sublime weapon which will solidify the power of the Empire for generations to come. You see, this station houses a superlaser with unparalleled capabilities. It can even destroy entire planets."

"That's _impossible_," Han breathed.

"I assure you it is not," the Emperor smirked. "Perhaps a demonstration would convince you?"

Beside him, Vader jerked, and Han felt his gut plunge as the Emperor pressed the button of a long-range com set into the projector control unit. "Fire at will, Commander."

* * *

tbc...

…


	55. First Blood

**CHAPTER 55**

**"First Blood"**

* * *

Surreal was the only word anymore. Piett stared dumbly out into space from the _Executor_'s bridge. Just a week ago, he had been a perfectly normal captain in the Imperial Navy. He had been reminding himself of that for hours now, but had yet to convince himself it had ever been true. And then in the course of just this week he'd joined a conspiracy to overthrow the Emperor, been caught, been interrogated, made a wholesale confession, and then quick as you please here he was back aboard the _Executor_ just as if he were a perfectly normal officer once again. According to the immemorial tradition of most sentient species throughout the galaxy, the invariable consequence of treason was drastic (most often fatal) punishment. But the Emperor had praised the conspirator and dispatched him back to his post unharmed, merely ordering him to refrain from speaking with Lord Vader.

After all of that, the arrival of the Death Star failed to seem bizarre. Piett was almost grateful to see the monstrous thing; he could not comprehend how he would have managed to live normally once again. Now, at least for the time being, he wouldn't have to –

_admit his rampant cowardice_

– reflect on his recent trauma.

"Status report," he demanded of ComScan.

"All squadrons of Capital Fleet are maintaining supporting formation for the Death Star as ordered, sir," the commander of the section reported. Somebody snorted at that, and Piett agreed. Supporting formation, his afterburners; the Death Star could probably mow straight over Imperial Center itself, not to mention all of Capital Fleet. "There's still a few units in the outer system that haven't arrived in position yet but they're on their way."

"What about the orbital traffic?"

"Seems to be settling down, sir." Whichever pompous windbag was in command of that oversized billard ball had ordered the _Executor_ to station itself just beyond the orbital traffic and police the terrified chaos. As the orders had been appended by the Emperor's signature, Piett thought it best not to ask questions. They'd obediently shot a couple of panicking cargo freighters out of commission by now; the rest of the lemmings had taken the hint.

However, not asking questions wasn't the same as not snooping. "And the com chatter?" he asked.

The commander shifted and scratched his ear; he'd been none too happy about being ordered to trace all outgoing transmissions from the battle station. "Other than the broadcast channel there hasn't been anything since it blasted away that squadron, sir."

To Piett's left hissed a sharp sigh. He glanced involuntarily at the slight brunette woman standing beside him, arms folded over her chest and lips flat. Apparently, she was the administrator of Lord Vader's holdings on Vjun. What she was doing _here_ Piett had no idea, but considering she'd flashed a blue-level security clearance at him he hadn't dared stop her from coming onto the bridge. She'd been hovering near ComScan, listening to replays of the transmission bursts between the Death Star and the shuttle it had detained about forty-five minutes ago.

"What are they playing at?" she murmured.

Piett was still debating whether the question had been rhetorical or not when the ComScan commander lurched forward, pressing his earpiece against his head. "Wait – I'm picking up something else, sir – seems like a tight encrypted beam, endpoint somewhere planetside – "

"Endpoint is Imperial Palace, sir," one of the analysis lieutenants clarified, clattering at his console. "And that's definitely a Blue encryption – "

"_All power to forward shields!" _someone screamed from Defense Control's operations pit.

Piett spun to demand an explanation, but his attention got mired on the way by the spectacle through the side viewport.

A series of scalding green lasers burst out from the rim of the Death Star's ominous crater, converging at the center into a single beam of death that lanced out over space _right towards them._

He should have known better than to think the Emperor would allow him to live. But at least he'd never have to live with himself. He turned just ahead of the oncoming destruction and saw Vader's administrator, white, collected, her hand clenched on the top of the ComScan commander's chair and her eyes shut. They opened wide to meet his for an instant - brown like home and full of sorrow that was about to belong to someone else.

That was Piett's last sight before the _Executor_ and everyone aboard vaporized into stardust.

* * *

For one unspeakable moment, Vader was convinced that the Emperor had ordered the Death Star to fire on Coruscant, regardless of the fact that trillions of beings and more incomprehensibly _Palpatine himself_ were at that same moment inhabiting it.

Then the great display magnified inward until the _Executor _came into sharp view – for a second.

The next second a great cloud of particle debris had taken its place. Nearby, Han Solo made a faint noise of incredulity as he circled around towards the other side to get a better view of the disaster.

_Up until an hour ago_, Vader thought numbly, _my daughter was on that ship_. If Miyr had not commed him to tell him Leia was aboard the Death Star – if Miyr had not called Landre in the first place –

Miyr, he realized, _had _been aboard the Star Destroyer.

"As you can see, my friend, this battle station is fully armed and operational." There was no veneer of camaraderie in the Emperor's voice now, only naked malice. "You are surprised, no doubt. I took the liberty of ordering Governor Tarkin to conceal the true pace of the project's completion. One never knows where treachery will spring up."

Vader looked up from the display at that.

"And you know, Lord Vader, that the dissuasion of treachery is precisely the intended purpose of this Death Star." The Emperor's ugly grin leered at him through the bluish haze of the projection. "Don't you?"

Even if he'd been innocent of the accusation, denial would have been pointless. Vader recognized a point of no return when he saw it. "If I have learned treachery," he snarled in retort, "the credit must go to the one who taught me. Consider this my final trial, _master_."

Quickly and covertly he reached out with the Force towards Olin. Five mental taps and a sense of great rush answered him. The Jedi was moving fast but would need another five minutes. Somehow he had to buy Olin that time. A little verbal sparring might do it –

"_What_?" Solo yelped from the sidelines. "What the _hell _is going on?" He backed away from both Sith, in the direction of the throne.

Palpatine's scowl grew darker and his leer more spiteful. "Once again you fancy yourself powerful enough to challenge your betters," he spat. "It seems I gave you too much credit when I presumed that Obi-Wan Kenobi had managed to teach you that lesson. Fortunately for you, I am still willing to see that you learn it."

The Dark Side flashed like a striking adder – but not at him. At _Solo_. The boy was ripped off his feet and thrown before Palpatine, forced onto his knees. From nowhere the Sith master produced his lightsaber and pressed the arc emitter into the side of Solo's head.

"Consider the mercy I show in comparison to that misguided fool who mangled you on Mustafar," the Emperor continued in derision. "The choice I offer is simple and the consequences readily apparent. I give you leave to pursue your inadvisable course. Take your weapon. Strike me down and assume my place."

He pressed the top of the saber harder into Solo's scalp. The boy broke into a shaking sweat. "I also give you leave to save the last relic of your precious wife. Which will it be, _Jedi_? Your ambition or your son?"

All of Vader's trepidation vanished in a blaze of triumph. So _this_ was the Emperor's hidden ace! He thought by means of the helpless son to vanquish the defiant apprentice who otherwise might defeat him. And it would have worked – but unbeknownst to Palpatine, a simple mistake had replaced his would-be ace with a worthless scrap of paper.

Darth Vader could have kissed Boba Fett.

He was free to attack, to astound the Emperor with his contemptuous dismissal of the counterfeit child, to finish his master once and for all. This unhoped-for opportunity would not wait for Olin. The faster he moved the better. But one thing delayed him for a fatal instant.

That one thing was the pale-faced but resolute silence of Han Solo, who even when it was about to cost him his life refused to jeopardize Luke's safety by revealing the truth. Like a statue of slightly green marble he waited at the end of the lightsaber, watching Vader, plainly resigned to the fact that the Sith Lord was about to sacrifice his life and count it the best bargain he'd ever made.

This was loyalty.

Admitting a flash of regret, Vader nonetheless tensed his muscles for sudden motion –

"_No!" _

* * *

Gigantic velvet drapes, though excellent for concealing teenage snoops from galactic despots, also became awfully stifling if you spent an hour wrapped in them. Luke could only sit there and remind himself that he'd once been used to severe heat, because moving was out of the question as long as Emperor Palpatine insisted on lounging in his throne room in the middle of the night. What he could possibly be doing that couldn't wait till morning? Luke's tired brain insisted on pondering that question, as well as the question of whether, should he dare peek out from his hiding spot, he would see the Emperor in his pajamas.

He pressed himself against the comparatively cool wall, telling himself that if everything worked out he'd never know the answer to either question and that the Emperor had to leave _sometime _soon. Even Sith Masters had to sleep, right? Oh, Force, _sleep_…

He snapped his eyes wide open. _Luke, you idiot, you can't sleep! Did you forget who's coming?_ Luke had ducked under cover not ten seconds before the side door below had opened and a single set of footsteps began proceeding in his direction. For a quarter of an hour the Emperor had simply sat in his throne, but then he'd said something over a com which had fired the Force with destiny and anticipation and nearly made Luke lose control of his shields.

"Summon Lord Vader and young Skywalker to my audience chamber immediately."

So not just his father, but Han were going to be here soon. To think Luke had had to come all the way to the Emperor's throne room to find Han! It felt like decades since the night on Vjun. If only he could find some way to let his father and Han know that he was here…but the Emperor…

The minutes stretched long and silent, well past _immediately_ and on into _rather late_. Even with nothing but a drape standing between him and death, Luke could barely keep himself from dozing off in the relentless silence and heat. He hadn't slept in at least twenty-four hours, and the Emperor wasn't even _doing_ anything but just _sitting _there for – he glanced at his chrono – a whole hour…of sleep…sounded so good…

A great mechanical groan echoed through the chamber and Luke twitched, coming back to his senses. The doors? The second groaning sound came and faded out slowly – and then, growing louder and closer, footsteps masked by the familiar rhythm of his father's respirator.

They were here! Weariness fled him as he listened to the Emperor welcome them. Just as quickly, his elation fled too. Palpatine sounded…well, much too pleasant, and Luke got the nasty feeling that underneath that friendliness lurked something worse than he could imagine. And what was this "auspicious event" he was talking about?

_What does auspicious even mean?_

Apparently it meant "the evilest thing anybody in the galaxy has ever thought of," because he told Han it was a battle station called a Death Star that could blow up entire planets and beat the mess out of the Rebels (if not quite in those exact words).

Then he said, "Fire at will."

Luke would have run out from behind the drape, but simply couldn't believe that the Emperor had a weapon that could blow up all of Coruscant. A moment later, a shock wave of death roared through the Force and almost made him sick. Even if the Emperor's battle station _couldn't _blow up Coruscant, it sure could blow up a lot of people at once. Luke had sensed death before – with trillions of beings in the galaxy, he couldn't very well avoid it – but never so much of it at once.

Through the nausea, he grimly hung onto his shields, and eventually became sensible to the fact that the Emperor was speaking again. He didn't sound friendly anymore – he sounded exactly like a man who'd just ordered an enormous massacre. And he was accusing Luke's father of being a traitor – and now his father was answering, oh, Force, he was really _really _angry –

With incredible speed, Luke felt the darkest currents of the Force whip under the Emperor's command. There was a yell from Han. Unable to bear his inability to see what was going on for another second, Luke slithered to the edge of the drape and peered around.

A great projection unit was displaying a sector of Coruscant space where a great cloud of glittering particle debris floated – in the far corner lurked an enormous orb that had to be that Death Star thing. On the far side of the projector stood his father, his lightsaber hilt gripped at the ready in his hand. Closest to Luke, on the near side of the projector with his back turned, stooped the wizened, robed figure of the Emperor. In front of him, on his knees, was Han. His fingers were shaking; Luke could just see them in the dim blue glow of the projection display, the brightest light source that had been turned on yet.

And that was a lightsaber hilt up against Han's head.

Luke tuned in again to the last part of the Emperor's speech. "…your precious wife. Which will it be, Jedi? Your ambition or your son?"

Luke sucked in his breath, eyes darting to his father. Total stillness, the air choked with portent –

Then his father's lightsaber hand started to come up.

Luke probably sensed the intent more than saw it, but it made no difference – he knew that his father wasn't going to try to save Han.

"_No!" _

All thought of self-preservation fled Luke's mind as he exploded from his hiding spot. His father froze in place as the Emperor's head whipped around in astonishment. Luke flung his hands out as his shields hurtled down, shoving Han out of the Emperor's reach and ripping the lightsaber out of the withered old hand. It soared into his grip and he sprinted out in front of Han, holding it at the ready.

Han, sprawled on the floor, gaped at him. So did the Emperor. Probably so was his father, except the mask was getting in the way.

_If I get out of this alive, I'm going to be in _so _much trouble_.

* * *

Several times over the past hour Vader had pondered the possible outcomes of tonight's clash. In none of those permutations had he predicted that someone would literally burst out of the wallwork and nick the lightsaber right out of Palpatine's hand.

Certainly not _his son_.

But there, in his customary defiance of all logical expectation, stood Luke. Other than sporting an astonishing amount of dirt and no shoes, he looked none the worse for having run amok throughout the galaxy.

Had he not been so dumbfounded himself, Vader might have been proud of the boy for being the first person in living memory to completely, utterly, and unquestionably gobsmack the Emperor.

* * *

How had that child _gotten _here?

That was Palpatine's first question, even before he began to wonder who the slightly-built, incredibly filthy, and oddly barefoot intruder could be. Somehow the boy must have found the concealed entrance he had constructed for the use of his agents – but in that case he had been here for the past hour and a quarter, avoiding the notice of a Sith Master the entire time!

It was obvious how the boy had done _that_, for the Force was now ablaze with his bright young aura, and it was screaming one word directly in the Emperor's ears.

_Skywalker!_

The similarity between this boy and his apprentice was so blatant even a Force-deaf rock could have sensed it. But then – _that _boy, whom Fett had brought him –

– was not Luke Skywalker.

He had been played for a fool: first by Fett, then by that idiotic teenaged brat from the Dark Side knew where, and finally by Vader.

How the real Luke Skywalker had wound up here despite Vader's determination to keep him away, the Emperor neither knew nor cared. All that mattered was his sudden, overpowering, insatiable _rage _at his apprentice –

– and the fact that the person Vader most treasured was within striking distance.

The precocious young Luke Skywalker – and how galling that that dolt sprawled behind him, the subject of so much wheedling contemplation, had the whole time been just what he appeared! – sensed the danger an instant before it struck and the red lightsaber blade sprang out. But the child had never dreamed of such an attack as the Emperor planned. The first salvo of unadulterated electric energy smashed the weapon from the shocked young hand; the second tore through his small frame.

Nothing could have been more satisfying than Vader's agonized roar.

* * *

"Ten minutes to real-space reversion, Admiral," the _Chimaera_'s chief navigation officer called out.

Torrin nodded without budging his hard stare from the mastermind of this lunatic's quest. "Do you think the Rebels will hold up their end of the bargain, sir?"

Thrawn, lounging in the command chair and tapping a long forefinger against his chin, smiled. "I know so, Admiral Torrin."

"How can you trust them?" Torrin snapped in a whisper. "They're criminals and guerrillas!"

"They are also highly dedicated and have a habit of doing things wholesale," Thrawn answered him. "More importantly, I have Bail Organa's word."

Torrin snorted. "His _word_."

"Yes," Thrawn answered composedly. "Senator Organa is noted for keeping it, you see. And I have other reasons to trust that he has great motivation for cooperating with us."

"Such as?"

"Now, now, Admiral," Thrawn chided, "the senator's business is his own. We have greater concerns at the moment."

"We certainly do," Torrin muttered. The idea of trying to coordinate a cross-galactic assault on the capital system with two mismatched forces that up until a week ago had been fighting each other tooth and nail would have sent any strategist but Thrawn to the insane asylum, laughing maniacally. Even the Rebel commanders, who swore by radical battle plans, hadn't been happy with this one. The number of things that could go wrong with timing alone had given Torrin nightmares from the first hour he' d reviewed the battle brief.

Thrawn shook his head. "Coordination doesn't concern me, Admiral. Our opponent does."

Torrin threw a sharp glance at Thrawn. "Don't tell me you're getting cold feet _now_." He'd been in on Thrawn's scheme for the better part of a year now, and a long year it had been keeping his poker face around Vader. If all that came to nothing because Thrawn had lost his nerve…

"Not in the slightest. I am merely aware that an adversary as canny and suspicious as the Emperor has inevitably considered the possibility of a military uprising." Thrawn smiled once more. "I suspect, however, he has not anticipated either the extent or the timing of the precise surprise he is about to get in – "

"Five," cut in the chief nav officer, gripping the helm controls and sweating violently at the feat he was about to attempt. "Four…three…two…one…"

The twisting light tunnel of hyperspace split, straightened, thinned, and resolved into stars. Coruscant's glittering orb erupted out of the void amidst them. As planned, the _Chimaera _was followed within the next second by all of Fifth Fleet. A flimsy fraction of a degree to their left appeared Sixth Fleet. The forces from Tenth Fleet emerged on the right not an instant later – and hot on their afterburners came Seventh –

"I read a squadron of Mon Cal starcruisers at oh-point-one degrees vertical, dead-on to bow!" the ComScan officer who'd been assigned to look for the Rebel forces sang out.

"Engage reverse thrusters!" roared the chief nav officer. Torrin clutched his armrests. He had tried to brace himself, really he had, but the display was far more appalling in reality than in his nightmares. Bad enough having four major Imperial fleets arriving simultaneously out of hyperspace so tightly – but then to bring another unfamiliar fleet out of hyperspace _right above and screaming down into their panicky formation – _

But that was exactly the hellish stunt Thrawn had concocted, and now it was too late for second thoughts because fifty Mon Cal starcruisers and twenty-two Corellian corvettes were blasting ninety degrees down into the Star Destroyers, which themselves were still straining to decelerate – and dear Force, they'd brought their X-wing squadrons _separately_ –

In what forever remained the most astonishing feat of pre-planned navigation Torrin witnessed, the Rebel forces split apart like a shrapnel explosion, arcing, rolling, swinging, dropping, decelerating, each ship on its own expertly designed course. They plunged into the Imperial formation with almost nonchalant grace, veering through and around the larger Destroyers. Not five seconds later the Mon Cal cruisers had aligned in a precise screen at the forward edge of the Imperial formation, while the corvettes dropped clean through the main body on a diagonal descent, reforming as a separate task force. The clouds of Rebel starfighters, unperturbed by the flailing of the capital ships, surged to the front as the TIE squadrons deployed behind them. Six seconds after the _Chimaera _had arrived in system, the whole chaotic mess had resolved into an orderly attack formation on a unified course towards the planet.

At the seven second mark, everybody noticed that a moon-sized orb was standing in the way. And they were about to run into it.

"_Evasive action!" _Thrawn snapped over the general broadcast channel. The swifter Rebel ships splintered chaotically once again, veering in wild ninety-degree turns in every direction in the effort to avoid collision with either the orb or each other – the _Victory_-class Destroyers followed suit, as the more ponderous _Imperial_-class frigates decelerated frantically to give themselves more time to adjust course. All thought of proper battle formation vanished.

They were lucky; even the point-position Star Destroyer _Dauntless _maneuvered clear, though probably with no more than a quarter of a klick to spare. Trouble was, no one had time to reflect on this fantastic good luck, because the moment they had split away from the gigantic orb they found themselves staring into the maw of the entire Capital Fleet, which had assembled in something horribly like a Corggin Pincer offensive screen.

Torrin spun to glare at Thrawn as the _Chimaera _dove sideways. "Exactly which part of our attack did you say the Emperor wasn't going to anticipate, _sir_?"

* * *

Tarkin drew his hands behind his back. The thinnest of smiles cracked his mouth. "Excellent," he said aloud. A nondescript answer crackled over the com from Superlaser Operational Command, and silence resumed on the overbridge as everyone contemplated the billowing cloud of space dust which had moments ago been the second most imposing starcraft in the Imperial Navy. What inhibitions the rest of his command staff and crew might have had about firing on a fellow Navy ship had been put to rest by a general announcement that the _Executor _had been complicit with Darth Vader in plotting to strafe all of Imperial City from orbit and kill not just the Emperor but most of the Senate and all of the chief military officers.

Tarkin himself quite doubted that the _Executor_ had intended to do any such thing, but not that Vader was plotting treason. It was, after all, what Tarkin would do in Vader's shoes. Not that it made any difference whatever to the Grand Moff – treason interested him only in its implications for existing power structures. A treasonous underling was a rotten apple to be culled from the barrel. A treasonous superior was an opportunity for self-advancement, in the noble cause of which Tarkin would happily have vaporized a whole fleet of _Executors_ and their mostly innocent crews. Innocence and guilt, besides being tedious to determine, had an annoying tendency to inhibit the advantages power could otherwise employ in its favor.

Speaking of advantages…

Tarkin took a seat in his command chair and punched a call through to Detention Block AA-23. "I presume you have secured the prisoners, Commander Dedalis?"

"Affirmative, sir," the supervising officer answered. "That doctor's still raising hell about his patient though." He sounded nervous, with good reason – not having heard anything about the present state of ill-favor in which the Emperor held Lord Vader, he could only presume the most dire consequences for withholding treatment from a prisoner whom the commander of the Imperial Navy wanted alive.

"Have the detention block medic check her," Tarkin ordered.

"I already did that, sir," the officer said ruefully. "The doctor kicked him out of the cell before he could finish. He's refusing to let anyone else touch her."

Next to Tarkin's chair, surveying readouts from the superlaser, Motti snorted. "Organa's brat? Let her rot. If she _is _dying, it's no more than that scum deserves…"

"Come, now, Motti," Tarkin responded, "that is hardly the proper manner in which to treat a guest of a renowned royal house. Besides, what use will she be if she's dead?"

Motti huffed and turned back to his readouts.

"Transfer the Princess and Doctor Siler to the detention medical wing and provide whatever the patient's doctor requests for her treatment," Tarkin decided. If Siler was pulling their collective leg, he could determine that at a later time and inflict appropriate retribution. Right now there were more pressing concerns, like quelling the explosive panic that had roared over the civilian traffic at the sight of the _Executor_'s destruction –

"Mass reversions from hyperspace in Sector Twelve off the Corellian Trade Route!" someone cried. "Evasive action!" Tarkin stood quickly and walked over to the display, which made his eyes widen with surprise. For all the Emperor's insistence, he'd not expected such a force to come against Imperial Center. There were over a hundred capital ships out there!

"Holy Sith," Motti breathed, surveying the converging groups, "that's _four _different departure points they've come from!"

"Make that five," the ComScan officer groaned as another cluster of sparks appeared on the scope.

For a moment, Tarkin thought the enemy might have rendered the Death Star superfluous by its own crazy ambition – it was clear that they had hoped to achieve instant battle formation with precise coordination, but the sight of one massive fleet dropping out of hyperspace right on top of another that had just done the same was enough to make even him wince. It was, according to the Emperor, exactly the sort of impossible stunt Thrawn liked to pull, but the Chiss had overstepped himself –

Perhaps not.

Motti exhaled sharply as he regarded the scope, which now displayed a mathematically arranged triple-cone attack formation. "_Damn_."

Tarkin mentally applauded his adversary. "An achievement," he said aloud. "But genius won't save you now, Admiral Thrawn." The oncoming force, no longer consumed with the nerve-wracking task of combining its disparate components without fatalities, had seen the great battle station sitting where they'd expected empty space. The forward screen splashed apart in all directions like water against a boulder, it looked like they'd avoid a collision –

"Concentrate fire on that point Star Destroyer!" the Targeting commander roared.

"We're still bringing up the firing systems, sir!" somebody shouted back in horror.

Motti and Tarkin scrambled for handholds – the Destroyer's belly loomed in the overbridge viewport as she swung wildly upward, trying to veer clear of the obstacle. Her nose writhed away, her stern swinging and her engines raging –

"She's clear," gasped ComScan.

Tarkin stood back up, somewhat shaken. To think that all of this planning and dedication had nearly been wiped out by a freak hyperspace reversion accident! While he doubted that even a kamikaze attack from a _Super_-class Destroyer could seriously damage the battle station itself, that _Imperial_-class could handily have wiped out the overbridge and chain of command. Perhaps even damaged the superlaser emitting dish.

He locked away his alarm. The momentary danger had passed, and Thrawn didn't know how close he'd inadvertently come to putting the Death Star out of commission. He would be far too busy trying to recover from his own unpleasant surprise, and though like Tarkin he'd avoided the imminent threat, _his _command remained in peril of its life.

Tarkin watched the attackers' frenzied effort to recover for another moment before returning to his command chair. "Communications, send out a general query. I wish to speak with Admiral Thrawn."

* * *

tbc...


	56. Trial of Arms

**CHAPTER 56**

**"Trial of Arms" **

* * *

Somehow the Rebels managed to get the first call through. It was one of the generals – Rieekan. Despite being a criminal and anarchist something about his stern face got Torrin's spine to stiffen a bit. "Thrawn, Coruscant doesn't have a moon," he barked without preamble. "Care to enlighten us as to what _that _is?"

"A space station, clearly, General," Thrawn told him, and his voice remained as calm as ever. "I presume it's heavily armed."

"You certainly should," Rieekan snapped, "because I don't know about you but we can't find the _Executor _on our scopes."

_They've had time to look for the _Executor_? _mouthed Torrin from the side. Thrawn leveled his eerie red glare at the closest ComScan officer, who checked his readout and turned with a pale shake of his head.

"Just taking a wild stab at the numbers," Rieekan growled, "but between the battle station being here and the _Executor_ being gone, our firepower advantage seems to be on vacation."

Thrawn, to Torrin's amazement, returned Rieekan's scowl with a feral grin. "Then it's fortunate we've brought along the experts in fighting against the odds. Direct your squadrons to fall back and resume formation," Thrawn ordered. "Let's not surrender prematurely."

Rieekan actually cracked a grin as Thrawn toggled on the command channel. "All units, reconverge and resume original formation on a double-loop course, outward bound. Hold your fire – I repeat, hold your fire."

Acknowledgments began to trickle in. Torrin found he could breathe again as the formation reappeared, centering on the _Chimaera_'s unperturbed figure-eight path. The starfighters swarmed loosely through their midst as the TIEs resumed deploying. Torrin allowed himself a tight smile as a few of the ships from Capital Fleet shifted from their assigned places, drifting back by turns as the attack force swung past them. Clearly, Grand Admiral Grant and his cronies realized that if that space station hadn't been there to back them up, they would have been both outnumbered and outclassed by the daredevils who'd just crashed their party. The inhuman calm of the enemy seemed to have intimidated them anyway.

"Sir," the Communications lieutenant said, "a transmission from the space station commander."

"Put it on the bridge projector," Thrawn ordered, "and on the general broadcast." Every head turned to watch.

* * *

Bail Organa's fingers turned white at the tips as he clutched the armrest of his seat on the bridge of _Home One_. The _Executor _was gone – by now the scanners had picked up a great ugly cloud of debris where it was supposed to have been stationed – and a corner of his mind had already gone mad with the fear that Leia had still been aboard when the catastrophe occurred. Nearby stood Rieekan and Mon Mothma, who'd insisted on risking her life in the same crazy battle they were asking their followers to wage, and they looked similarly disturbed by the turn of events.

He doubted they were quite as disturbed as he was, because of the three of them only he had met the man who turned out to be in command of this Death Star.

"Admiral Thrawn," cooed Grand Moff Tarkin's holographic form. The conversation between the two commanders was being broadcast to the entire fleet from the _Chimaera_, and Bail suspected from the Death Star as well. "The Emperor has been expecting you."

"Evidently so," Thrawn responded from his side of the split projector. "Disappointing that we were unable to surprise him properly."

"Rest assured that you have at least surprised me." Tarkin's eyebrow stood curiously higher. "I confess, I didn't expect that even a halfbreed such as yourself would stoop to collaborating with Rebels. Mon Calamari starcruisers and Corellian corvettes, an impressive number of them I'm told." He steepled his hands beneath his Spartan chin and smiled a horrible smile. "I'm sure it must have been a great feat of diplomacy."

Thrawn responded with a decorous nod.

"I would very much hate," Tarkin continued, "to see all that hard effort wasted on dead men, a sentiment with which the Emperor agrees. Therefore, I am willing to offer you one opportunity to surrender peaceably before turning the full capabilities of my Death Star against your little…alliance. It is possible that His Majesty may be gracious should you do so."

It sounded like a nearly extinct possibility the way Tarkin said it.

"A generous offer," Thrawn murmured. "Very generous indeed, Governor. In light of the situation I may be inclined to accept."

Rieekan's forehead furrowed in angry wrinkles while Bail nearly cut off the circulation to his fingertips.

"Perhaps," Thrawn continued, "your extraordinary magnanimity might extend itself enough to permit me five minutes to speak with my unit commanders before providing a definite answer?"

Tarkin's bloodless, bony visage nodded with a sardonic quirk of the mouth. The feed went dead for a few seconds. Then it came back on, displaying split images of Thrawn and all the other unit commanders. Rieekan stepped into the transmission field, glancing at the miniature images of Dodonna and Crix Madine as he did. Dodonna and the _Mon Ramonda _were stationed in the right-hand attack cone near the _Chimaera_; Madine was in command of the corvette detachment.

"General Madine," Thrawn said immediately, "you are ordered to break off from the main force in two minutes and deploy the groundside team. Then pursue your original objective independently."

A sharp intake of breath raced around the holographic circle.

"We've come this far together, gentlemen," Thrawn told them with a knife-edged grin. "This is our opportunity and history will not wait for our greater convenience. On my mark, course adjustment 32-4-34."

"Admiral," snapped Madine, "that'll take you directly – "

" – into point blank range against Capital Fleet?" Thrawn finished. "I think you'll find we stand far better odds against fellow Star Destroyers than against that Death Star. Once we're in amongst them Tarkin won't be able to fire the superlaser without risk of striking friendly ships and we'll have a numerical advantage of almost two to one over Capital Fleet."

"Might just take a chunk of it with us," Dodonna mused, plainly relishing the prospect. The Imperial commanders, who had never fought a battle where the odds were less than three to one in their favor, swallowed rather hard at this sentiment, but attempted to muster some of the death-disdaining swagger the Rebels had put on prominent display.

"Remember, gentlemen," Thrawn said sharply, "the foremost objective has not changed. The Emperor is the prime target, and our groundside teams still stand an excellent chance of success. Stand by for my mark."

* * *

_There is not much space in this vessel, _muttered the warrior hunched next to him.

Chewbacca lifted his lip in an amused woof. _I doubt the Empire had Wookiees in mind when they built it._

_I doubt the Empire has Wookiees in mind now, _someone rumbled from the far side of the muggy cabin, and despite the tension and cramped quarters barks of laughter burst out.

The Imperial Special Forces shuttle which Thrawn had loaned to General Madine's task force gave a sharp lurch and everyone's muscles tensed as fur stood up on the backs of their necks. _We're away from the corvette, _Chewie's neighbor muttered. _We must hope the enemy does not notice our descent._

_The shuttle is equipped with a cloaking device, _Chewie reminded him. _And our human allies shall perform a diversion by attacking the orbital checkpoints. Our pilot will not have difficulty reaching the enemy's great treehouse._

_That will be easiest part, _a tawny-furred warrior across from him commented. _The true trial of arms awaits us only when we have reached the great oppressor of our people._

_A trial for which we are well prepared, _Chewie retorted. _We shall either carry our allies to triumph in our victory or acquit ourselves honorably in death._

A chorus of approving roars echoed almost painfully in the cabin.

_Just remember, clan-brothers, _Chewie added, hoisting his bowcaster and patting its trigger mechanism, _I'd prefer the former._

* * *

Progress had been miserably slow. The undercity constituted a whole separate planet from the brilliance and pomp of the elite upper levels which Baranne usually inhabited. On several occasions his squad had had to open fire to drive away shadowy packs of voracious scavengers. It gave whole new meaning to the term "urban jungle." The search for his elusive quarry had led Baranne deeper into the sublevels than he'd ever dared venture before. Finding physical indications of their passage wasn't easy in the pitch blackness of a crumbling warren that, if legend was to be trusted, hadn't seen sunlight for the last ninety-five millennia.

So far they'd managed to trace what seemed to be a detectable trail starting from that lower-level gate to Imperial Palace and continuing down past the tenth level of the adjacent structure. The signs of a vicious firefight gave Baranne pause for awhile as he pondered who'd come out on top, but he'd located some tracks that led him further down until he and his escort squad found themselves facing an ancient conveyor belt – broad, dilapidated, about fifteen feet high, still rattling at a vigorous pace down a great industrial corridor that appeared to go on forever in either direction. No sign of their quarry.

Baranne had vented his frustration by kicking the scaffolding until he noticed a beat-up tool rack that had unaccountably wound up leaning against the east-bound conveyor frame. Almost as if it were a ladder and not –

He paused and stared. Then he stabbed a finger at the squad commander.

"Call the supply station. I want a dozen speeder bikes down here on the double!"

While the squad commander made the arrangements Baranne dug out an old-fashioned flimsy map of the planet and compared it with his present position and the heading of the belt. As he'd thought – this was an antique cargo conveyor, once used to transport goods into Galactic City from the Works. There were criminal hotspots in that quarter – as there were in most of the planet – but also broad stretches of abandoned infrastructure where dwelt nothing but mutant rats. Planetary surveillance didn't pay extensive attention to most of the district, reckoning that even hardened criminals couldn't wreak much havoc in an industrial graveyard; a street-savvy character like Calrissian probably knew that.

"Tell the team topside to dispatch a few probe ships over this district," he told the squad commander as the speeder bikes arrived. "Have them scan for any personal-size hyper-capable spacecraft within sector 12-42-18." That was the box of cityscape adjacent to their conveyor belt. It was a long shot – Calrissian might not be there at all, and even if he was he still might not have a spacecraft available, as it was already established that the _Lady Luck_ hadn't budged from its landing pad in North Aldray District. But it couldn't hurt to try.

"We'll follow this belt on bike and try to narrow the search parameters," Baranne continued, swinging onto his bike's saddle and experimenting with the brakes. Finding the forward floodlights, he switched them on, sending a comforting blaze of white light down the corridor ahead of him. "Take it at a nice easy pace, boys – we don't want to miss something."

* * *

Lando never could say afterwards what prompted him to wake up in the middle of the night. It could have been lingering maladjustment to the local night cycle, it could have been the persistent ache in his leg, it could have been another nightmare in which he had to explain to Vader why Luke and his kid sisters had been devoured by a garbage slug in the pits of the planet. Whatever had done the trick, he was luckier than a Jawa in a junkyard that he decided he might as well get up and see if there anything in the way of hot chocolate available in the galley.

As he climbed out of his bunk, he felt under his pillow and blew a huge sigh of relief to feel Luke's boots and the hilt of his lightsaber still tucked safely away. This feeling of relief lasted as long as it took him to check the bottom bunk for the toddlers (still dead to the world) and flick his gaze up to the top bunk to check for Luke.

There was no Luke present.

Lando pulled himself up on the frame in disbelief, then hobbled out of the cabin hissing the kid's name. Without his shoes and lightsword thing he couldn't have gone far, he consoled himself. Probably the galley, but maybe the cockpit…he limped as quick as he could down all the corridors (there weren't many on a shuttle this small) and inspected all the cabins and compartments.

There was no Luke aboard.

And his blaster wasn't in the arms locker anymore.

Lando swore unrepeatably and grabbed one of the emergency holdout pistols also stashed in the locker. The thing was crap but at least it could fire a stun blast, and if Luke was still within range that was exactly what Lando planned on doing to him. He unsealed the ramp and staggered down into the blackened expanse of the hangar. At its gaping entrance the faint sparkle of atmospheric traffic glinted, the only working illumination in the whole bay. Shadows spilled out everywhere, offering dozens of teen-sized hiding places. Lando swore again and started off in the direction they'd arrived at the shuttle from earlier. Halfway across the bay, it dawned on him that if the kid was already gone, then one of Vader's children was in mortal danger – but if Lando went after him, he'd leave the _other_ two kids in mortal danger.

He very much doubted their daddy would have a lot of sympathy for his predicament.

Lando burst into his most vociferous string of invective yet. It got cut off mid-expletive as an engine whine sang out from the direction of the hangar entrance and he had to drop like a rock behind an abandoned cargo crate. Fingers shivering, he leaned out ever-so-slightly to do a little reconnaissance.

A phalanx of speeder bikes poured in through the bay entrance, drawing themselves up in a semicircle centered on the base of the still-extended shuttle ramp. Lando sucked in his lip with a faint hiss – stormtroopers! And one eerily familiar guy in civilian duds. Wasn't that the agent from the Strip shootout, who'd been after the kids? The same guy who'd grilled him for information at the cantina?

Gears whirred in Lando's brain. At the time he'd been sure the guy was after Luke because the kid was half a Jedi and the Empire wanted everyone like him dead. But what if he was really Vader's agent? Suppose he already knew whose kids they were?

And even if he didn't, did it matter? Anytime the Empire's agents tracked down somebody Force-sensitive, they got sent to Vader, right? And _he'd _know whose cute little girls they were.

A monumental sigh of relief flooded out of Lando as the agent pulled his weapon and started edging up the ramp, flanked by all the troopers. Most likely Luke had somehow gotten back to Vader and that was how they'd found the ship; Lando doubted they could have been tracked here otherwise, what with that ridiculous chase through the undercity. The agent would get those girls where they had to go, and as far as Lando was concerned he could make all the explanations to Daddy Dearest too.

It was finally, blessedly time for Lando Calrissian to skedaddle.

He shifted in the shadow of the crate and licked his lip. Specifically, Lando Calrissian needed to skedaddle out of this landing bay and back to the _Lady Luck_'s berth in the North Aldray District, and thence out of system, all without being caught by nosy Imperial agents who probably had him marked for a cold-blooded kidnapper with nerves of durasteel and the morals of a Hutt.

There were several ways he could accomplish this. No doubt the most sensible and cautious option would have been to slink back down through the building and work his way through the undercity back towards his ship. Lando Calrissian was normally a great advocate of sense and caution. But human minds work in strange ways at three in the morning, which Lando later decided was the only plausible explanation for the series of events that took up the next several hours.

Well, that, and he'd be damned if he was going to ride a conveyor belt back to Imperial City when there were a dozen perfectly comfortable speeder bikes sitting right in front of him.

* * *

"Clear!" snapped the point trooper. He flicked the muzzle of his blaster towards the left-hand corridor across the main passenger cabin of the lambda shuttle. Four troopers split off to check the cockpit and cannon consoles while the rest of them followed Baranne towards the cabins, storage, and galley positioned to stern. Baranne shifted his grip calmly and checked to be sure the settings were still locked to stun mode.

It had been tedious going but they'd finally spotted signs of their quarry a while after crossing into the Works. Not much – just some dust disturbances around one of the access platforms next to the whistling conveyor belt, and fairly fresh blood traces on the grating where someone had scraped a knee while jumping off the belt. The overhead patrol probes, concentrating their scans on the nearby buildings, had reported a _lambda _shuttle nestled into a landing bay in one of the defunct factories.

It did not take a man of Baranne's intellect long to note the curious coincidence that young Luke Skywalker and the Jedi attacker had escaped the melee on Corellia aboard a _lambda _shuttle. His excitement blazed at the possibility that he might recover all of his targets at once.

The troopers split into pairs and sprinted silently, each pair taking up position on opposite sides of the hatches of the four bunkrooms. Baranne stood back and signaled the first two pairs, who activated them and whipped through to cover the interiors. In a few moments they returned, shaking their heads silently as they reformed in support position. The next two hatches flashed open and the troopers darted inside –

"Clear!" called one of them, and at the same time from the other side came a very young, very distressed wail. Baranne shoved past the troopers and into the bunkroom. One stormtrooper had his blaster trained on the tiny blonde twins from Corellia, who had awoken at the noise and were sobbing in the corner of their bunk. His partner had begun searching the cabin.

Baranne heaved a great sigh of satisfaction. Well, that was part of his job done, then. He leaned back out to speak with the squad commander. "Finish checking the rest of the ship and then search the bay," he ordered. "If you find anyone, detain them for investigation."

"Yes, sir," he barked briskly. Baranne ducked back into the cabin and waved down the trooper standing guard on the twins. He knelt in front of them for a closer look. Definitely the same girls. Vader's daughters. Odd. They didn't look especially fearsome at the moment. Must take after the mother.

Baranne derailed that train of thought before he could start himself wondering about who their mother could be. Curiosity was a valuable trait in an investigative agent, but not if turned against the employer of that agent. Accordingly he didn't ask their names.

"Who's _dat_?" one of them sniffed.

"Dunno," whimpered the other.

"Want Dadda!" wailed the first.

"We'll get you to your Daddy very soon," Baranne took the risk of telling them.

The frightened crying halted at this declaration. "Dadda?" the first twin sniffled, smearing tears and snot across her face with her tiny fist.

"That's right," he agreed. "I'm Agent Baranne."

"Ban?" the second one tried. "Where Luke, Ban?"

Baranne felt a jolt of electricity in his toes and fingertips. "Was Luke here with you two?"

"Sir!" One of the stormtroopers tapped him on the shoulder. "Take a look at these, sir."

Baranne glanced over shoulder. The trooper was holding a pair of child-sized boots and a silvery cylinder. He reached back for the latter and inspected it. He couldn't be sure, not being an expert on lightsabers, but this might be the same one he'd seen Luke carrying both on Corellia and, earlier, the freighter. It was certainly either Luke's or the Jedi attacker's, and as those boots looked like they'd fit a teenage boy…

"He went a' bed wis us," the second one answered him. "He made Kwishy think quiet so we didn't hafta stay awake."

"Kwishy," Baranne muttered, ignoring the rest of her incomprehensible remark. "Do you mean Lando Calrissian?"

She nodded vigorously and huddled further back in the corner, holding on to her sister tightly and regarding him with a sleepy scowl. "Kwishy!"

"Where Kwishy?" whispered the first twin plaintively.

"I don't know," Baranne told her, getting to his feet the better to think. So – both Luke and Calrissian had been here recently. If they'd left the girls asleep here, they couldn't have gone far –

"Agent Baranne!" The squad commander had lurched around the entrance of the bunkroom. "Sir, one of our speeder bikes is missing!"

Correction, Baranne told himself angrily. They couldn't have gone far _without stealing their transportation_. "Did you see the thief, Lieutenant?" he demanded.

"No, sir, the bike was gone when we stepped out to check the bay."

Baranne squeezed his eyebrows, long and hard, so as not to swear in front of impressionable little children whose father would not be even remotely amused if the agent were to broaden their vocabulary in that direction. "Alright," he made himself say. "Contact the probe operation team and have them readjust their search parameters. Whoever it was they can't have gotten more than a couple minutes' head start, so let's see if we can't spot them on the scopes."

The squad commander hefted his blaster in an affirmative manner and trotted off to relay the orders. Baranne turned to the closest trooper. "You and your partner, get these two outside and load up on the speeder bikes. I want them back at Lord Vader's castle in a secure facility under 24-7 watch half an hour ago. If they get so much as a hangnail between here and there, you'll be the ones explaining it to Lord Vader, clear?"

"As transparisteel, sir." They each plucked a frightened girl from the bunk and left carrying their blasters with their free hands. Baranne cast a final glance around the cabin before letting fly a resentful kick into the frame of the bunk.

_Once,_ he growled to himself as he followed the troopers, _just _once_ can't that boy make my job a bit easier? _

* * *

Lando made sure to stay low as he blasted across the cityscape towards North Aldray; he'd ducked pretty deep down in order to avoid some aerial probes lurking near the factory and he was worried there might be more of them about. Maybe he should have opted for a longer and less predictable route, like swinging wide clear around the Temple district before coming back towards his destination. But at this point speed might be more important than style; the less time the Empire had to get his mugshot on the wanted charts the better his odds of getting out of system. To his surprise the _Lady Luck _was just where he'd left her. Drat – he'd left his rental key back at the shuttle. Lando fumbled for the trigger of his bike's nose cannon and blasted apart the generator of the security shield around the ship.

Alarms erupted, the security guards shouted, and the shift manager came sprinting from the office of the landing field, waving his arms and spewing threats to call the local patrol squad until Lando stunned him. Shooting bursts of stun fire with one hand and frantically entering his access code with the other, he somehow held off the security guards long enough to get aboard. Retracting the ramp he fled to the cockpit to power up and saw a stormtrooper platoon arriving from the north entrance of the field. Frig it anyway – the Empire'd already been keeping its bead on this place!

But they didn't seem to have really anticipated that he'd put in an appearance; their response time was too slow. The engines roared to life and he kicked it straight into launch without waiting for the repulsors. No doubt he'd just done thousands of credits of damage to the platform, scorching it with direct sublight engine exhaust. Practically broke his heart and all, but he could write a check later.

Expecting to encounter a squad of prowling TIE fighters any instant, Lando aimed the ship's afterburners at the ground and its prow at the stars, streaking through the atmospheric traffic with no regard for preplanned aerial routes.

Nobody objected. Not until he'd sequestered himself safely in the mill of Coruscant's orbital traffic and gotten over the first exhilarating wave of triumph did Lando begin to think that somewhat odd. Then, when his flight path was cut off by a series of careening cargo freighters and he had to cut sideways into a chaotic swarm of yachts, he noticed that the mayhem that always characterized the orbital traffic lanes over the planet had degenerated into a stampeding panic. It was only after he took a gander at his long-range scopes that he realized why.

Coruscant, in the mere days since his arrival, had acquired a moon with a gigantic laser. Just beyond the monstrous object raged a battle of a scale that hadn't been seen since the Clone Wars – dozens, no _hundreds _of Star Destroyers, shooting at each _other_, while the moon-laser-thing picked off capital ships that had strayed near the edge of the melee. And closer to the planet he saw the reason no one had challenged his unauthorized escape from the surface – a detachment of light Corellian corvettes had tied up the entire orbital patrol force in a speedy game of cat-and-mouse around the entry checkpoints, though who was chasing who seemed to change every few seconds.

Lando sat stunned, hands going slack on the controls. No wonder no one had stopped him from leaving – he was witnessing the implosion of the Empire. Who gave a wet nerf about a paltry kidnapper when the fate of the galaxy was at stake? He spent several seconds trying to comprehend the fact that all the trauma he'd just experienced was of no consequence at all compared to what had been going on overhead.

The next second Lando realized that a fleeing freighter had cut loose the cargo pods it had had in tow, that these pods were spinning out of control right in front of him, and that he would not be able to maneuver away from them before they turned him into vapor –

Laser fire streaked out from his rear upper left, blasting away the lethal obstacles for him. The sudden show of force was too much for the captain of the freighter, who lost his nerve and sent his ship careening into a bank of sensor satellites. Lando on the other hand sucked in his breath at the near miss and lunged for his com, hoping to thank his rescuer. The ship that had saved him swept up across his viewport – a sinfully battered YT-1300, modified to carry illegal quad cannons on its dorsal and ventral surfaces. Its crew had obviously realized that the Imperial authorities would be no more interested in smugglers right now than they were in kidnappers.

His com screeched like a malfunctioning sound system as the connection came through to the YT-1300. Lando winced until his ears redefined the din as a stream of loudly whistled binary code.

"…_do _be quiet, Artoo, I can't _hear_!" wailed a prissy voice with mechanical undertones. The whistling ended with an insolent chirp. "Hello? Are you alright, unknown starcraft?"

"Yeah, yeah," Lando gasped. "Listen, thanks for saving my neck back there, Mr…?"

"It was our pleasure, sir," the droid – it had to be a droid – answered. "My name is See-Threepio."

"Threepio?" That was probably a protocol droid designation. "Can I talk to your master for a moment, Threepio?"

"I'm afraid not," the droid answered, now sounding wholly frantic. "You see, my counterpart Artoo-Detoo and I are currently piloting the _Millennium Falcon_ on our own – "

Violent screeches from the other droid drowned out Threepio as Lando lurched up in excitement and took another look at the ship. Dash it to the ninth hell, that _was _Solo's freighter! What was it doing here? And why were _droids_ flying it?

" – no I will _not_ be silent, Artoo! I'm only being civil! And it's not as though we'll have better chances of rescuing the Princess from the Death Star if we don't tell any humans that we need help!"

Artoo's retort was anything but impressed.

"Well of _course _I'm not suggesting that – "

"Threepio," Lando cut in, "do you and Artoo know Han Solo and Luke?"

"Why – why yes!" Lando had never heard something mechanical sound so astonished. "Master Luke is our rightful owner!"

Artoo, judging from the cascade of irate squawks, took issue with this statement. "Of course I think rescuing Princess Leia is important!" Threepio nipped back at him. "I was merely pointing out that we belong to Master Luke now, not the Organas!"

"What's this about a princess?" Lando asked, rubbing his head and trying to recollect why her name sounded significant.

Artoo set off in a long chorus of squeals. "Princess Leia Organa of Alderaan. Artoo says that she's a friend of Master Luke's who is being held prisoner aboard the Death Star," Threepio translated. He sounded much calmer now that he'd gotten in his element. "No one but us seems to know she's there – what's that, Artoo? Oh, yes, the picture."

Lando's projector lit up with an image of a brunette girl whom he recognized immediately as Luke's spunky girlfriend from Corellia. Great – first Vader's kids, now a princess from one of the galaxy's most important systems. Somebody, somewhere, must have misfiled his resumé under _Underpaid Au Pairs for the Filthy Rich_, and Lando Calrissian was going to find that being, and that being was going to dearly regret the day when –

"Artoo wishes to ask," Threepio continued with tremulous reluctance, "whether you would be willing to assist us in rescuing Princess Leia from the space station?"

"_That _space station right over there?" Lando squeaked. He spared a glance for the gigantic orb Artoo had called the Death Star. As he watched it spat a gargantuan beam of green laser and a whole Imperial Star Destroyer evaporated like water in a reactor chamber. "_Like the nine hells!_"

Threepio could not sigh with relief, but plainly would have if only he could have borrowed a pair of lungs from someone. "There, Artoo, you see, it's out of our – "

Laser fire hammered into the _Luck_'s hull, batting Lando around in his seat. With a yell he wrenched the controls – that insane astromech piloting the _Falcon_ had just fired on him! Even as he tried to figure out why, the YT-1300 snapped across to his side and sprayed him with another salvo; Lando veered up, to the left –

"Artoo! _Artoo_! Stop this madness at once! This is a friend of Master Luke – what do you think you're _doing_ – "

"What the ninth hell do you think you're doing?" Lando shouted over Threepio's hysterics, plunging the _Luck_ away from the _Falcon_'s crazed pursuit. "You're gonna bring the Navy down on us – "

The _Luck_ rocked nastily and Lando's dark complexion turned a sickly shade of ash as he spotted the source. That last blast hadn't come from the _Falcon_, but from a huge bone-white Star Destroyer that insane astromech was driving him towards. Despite being swarmed by wrangling starfighters it had noticed the little skirmish just breaking clear of the orbital traffic. "_Stop_ it, you idiot droid!" Lando roared at the astromech.

Artoo did not even think about stopping it. Using the freighter's own armaments and the bombardment of the irritated Destroyer it forced the unarmed _Luck_ into the only lane clear of fire – bursting up and out on a direct trajectory for the Death Star. Lando's protests degenerated into virtuosic oaths that would have scalded the ears off a smuggler, drowning out Threepio's wails and reprimands. What made it even more galling was that he couldn't fly away from a dratted little _droid_ – if he'd realized what the astromech was up to when it started firing, he might have had a chance to evade and take his own route, but now that the astromech had gotten him into the thick of the battle it could herd him wherever it wanted by blocking other flight paths with its own fire – what with the vicious crossfire of starfighters and Destroyers there weren't many options for a ship that was supposed to be a _pleasure yacht _for Force's sake –

The com system had been blaring a siren and red warning light at him for minutes – probably somebody in uniform trying to figure out what these civilian maniacs were up to – but Lando had no time to answer. So it came as a total surprise when his ship froze up in a tractor beam.

"Now you've gone and done it," Threepio's voice pronounced as Lando slumped silently in his seat, having exhausted his reserves of expletives. "We're _doomed_."

Artoo's smug retort made Lando vow to rip out its wicked little processors with his bare hands.

* * *

tbc...


	57. Belly of the Beast

A/N: And before any of you ask, NO, I have not forgotten about Vader and Luke and Han. I just have a lot of story lines to juggle here. Their ball is coming back around in the next chapter. ;)

* * *

CHAPTER 57

"Belly of the Beast"

* * *

Deck Officer Pash Kelmer had become fully accustomed to lounging much and working little over the past months – not a wonder, taking into account that Docking Bay 33978-B, where he and one other officer served as supervisors, was one more redundant guest shuttle landing platform aboard an enormous battle station that had been a complete secret up until a few hours ago. The six-month-old log had exactly three arrivals on record, of which Kelmer had witnessed only one – five months ago, when his co-supervisor arrived a couple days behind him. It had therefore become the practice of the Deck Officer to spend his shift hours in the supervision station listening to galactic holoradio.

Today was different. Today the whole docking bay crew had packed into the station, and rather than Galaxy's Top Hundred Countdown Humanoid Edition they were listening to the Fleet-wide broadcast channel while watching the bit of battle they could see from their limited local sensors. A great groan went up from everyone as a cloud of skirmishing TIE fighters and a Star Destroyer, which had been their chief entertainment for the last several minutes, veered out of their sensor field and vanished. That left just the distant dogfight between the rogue corvettes and the orbital patrol force within their field of vision – all the best action was out of sight on the station's opposite hemisphere.

"What the hell's that?" someone demanded, pointing at a couple of erratic blips swerving closer to the Death Star.

"Damned if I know." Deck Officer Kelmer sounded thrilled by the possibility of a bit of the battle drawing closer to them. "Viker, keep an eye on it."

A sullen sensor tech detached himself from the spectators around the sensor readout and thudded down at his work station, donning his headset and scowling at his screen. Back on the sensor display, several spectacular explosions drew everyone's attention back to the corvettes. One of the attacking ships was splintering to pieces, taking a pair of patrol blastboats with it.

"They've got to be Rebels," the bay's com ensign said, pointing to the elastic corvette formation. "Too much coordination to be anything else."

"They detached from an Imperial Destroyer fleet," Kelmer snapped. "How the hell could they be Rebels?"

"Technically," the other Deck Officer said, "that Destroyer fleet is a bunch of rebels too, if you haven't noticed that they're firing on us – "

This touched off a storm of argument, which persisted loudly until the sensor tech yelled above them all, "Deck Officer Kelmer! Those ships are going to breach our patrol zone!"

That put paid to the debate as everyone converged on the tech's readout to see. The two insane blips were dancing just kilometers outside Docking Bay 33978-B's patrol zone. "They're civilian transponder codes, sir," the tech added, "not Navy. If they cross over without providing clearance code authorization – "

"Hail them?" Kelmer's order was more like a question, but the com ensign dashed to his station anyway and scanned for their frequency codes.

"Unknown civilian spacecraft, this is Imperial Orbital Battle Station DS-1," he barked. "You are nearing a restricted space zone without authorization. Transmit your authorization codes immediately."

After a few minutes the ensign scowled. "No answer, sir." He switched his mic back on. "Unknown civilian spacecraft, you are advised to respond immediately. Be aware that if you do not respond you will be detained for investigation."

By way of answer, both the blips burst across the patrol zone boundary.

"Stop them, Ensign!" Kelmer demanded.

"They're firing on each other, sir," Sensor Tech Viker added, no longer looking sullen about having to work.

"Unknown civilian spacecraft, this is your last warning! Respond immediately or you will be forcibly detained for investigation!"

The blips only spiraled closer to the station. Kelmer looked alarmed about it, but nonetheless pleased to see some of the action himself. "Barcola, tractor them in," he announced importantly. "And alert the squad!" Tractor Tech Barcola, having already gotten to his station in hopes of getting to do something, had them snared in the tractor beams not two seconds later. The com ensign pressed the key to summon the trooper regiment stationed down the corridor from their bay.

"Let's check it out, boys," Kelmer said, patting his blaster in its holster.

* * *

Tycho Celchu barely held in a shout as a huge red laser beam from a Star Destroyer's turret scorched through space ahead of his starfighter. With an almighty wrench of his controls he rocketed up and shot over the beam of death, blessing Raith Sienar for the marvelous mobility he'd seen fit to bestow on TIE-Advanced starfighters. Behind him, the gen-issue TIE that had been hot on his tail never had time to bemoan his inferior agility before erupting in a fireball upon contact with the capital laser beam. But then, Celchu never had time to gloat, because he was already throwing his ship into a desperate barrel-spin dive so as not to meet the same fate at the hands of the _next _starfighter –

"I've got him, Black Four," his com crackled. The TIE on his tail spun out in a whirl of sparks as the only other TIE-Ad in this demented brawl swung down and resumed position on Tycho's right-hand side

"Thanks, sir," Tycho croaked.

"Save it for the reception, Celchu," Soontir Fel ordered grimly. An oncoming wing of enemy TIEs sent them splitting in opposite loops.

_Enemy TIEs_. A sick swoop went through Tycho's stomach as his cannon fire caught up with another of them and it splintered into fiery fragments. Half an hour ago he'd been a proud pilot in the Navy's most reputable flight squadron, a stalwart defender of a glorious Empire who happened to be engaged with the rest of his wing in policing the frantic space traffic around Coruscant. Now he was fighting for his life against men he'd have called his comrades, around the great hull of the Imperial battle station that had blown the _Executor_ and her whole crew into meteor dust.

Of the Star Destroyer's entire personnel complement of almost 300,000, the twelve dispatched pilots of Black Squadron had been the sole survivors. Then Capital Fleet's TIEs deployed after _them_.

Black Squadron was good. But not even Lord Vader himself could have done much against odds of more than fifty to one. Within fifteen minutes it had been down to just Colonel Fel and Tycho, who still had no idea how he'd managed to survive longer than all his more experienced squadmates. In five more minutes he'd have been space vapor right alongside them, but he and the Colonel had been saved by the arrival of the opposing fleet of Destroyers. The enemy TIEs fell back into standby formation near their mother ships as Tycho and Fel fled into the midst of the new arrivals, broadcasting distress signals to anyone who'd listen.

So – that was how Tycho Celchu had gone from Imperial enforcer to Rebel conspirator in half an hour. He couldn't even entirely regret it, because any Empire that test-fired its doomsday weapons on its own military was an Empire in which Tycho Celchu wanted no part.

He sure as hell could _partly _regret it, though – he told himself this as he threaded his way through the oncoming assailants and ducked under yet another shot from one of the Capital Fleet destroyers – because although all these new allies might have done a fair bit to even his odds, he and the Colonel were still a lone pair without a real squad to back them up. Just to make it worse, the enemy knew that their TIE-Ads had to have escaped from the _Executor_ because that was where the first (and so far, only) batch of prototype models had been sent for action testing.

"I feel like a Wookiee at a Jawa convention, sir," he muttered over his com.

"Com silence, Celchu!" the Colonel snapped back at him. Tycho gritted his teeth and told himself to worry about staying alive, and not about the fact that the Colonel only snapped when he couldn't spare the attention to banter –

Then two more squads of TIEs appeared on his scopes – out of the Death Star, damn that evil beach ball anyway – and swarmed straight for them. Tycho knew at that moment that it was as good as over, because the sort-of allied TIE squadron they were sort of flying with was already falling apart at the seams, and they weren't going to risk their weakening formation to come to the aid of two unknown pilots the enemy really, really wanted to blow up.

"Thanks for everything, sir," he said aloud over the com, ignoring the Colonel's immediate reprimand, and he gripped his controls, resolved to give even worse than he got so his girlfriend on Alderaan could be proud of him –

The first fangs of oncoming death erupted in explosions and the startled oncoming squads split around the two TIE-Ads.

"You boys look like you could use some help," a cheerful voice commented over their channel. "Switch to our squad frequency if you can keep up with us."

Tycho Celchu stared in disbelief as a group of Rebel X-wings shrieked down from the upper right of his field of vision, blasting the afterburners off the astonished Death Star fighters. Hastily he switched to the channel shared by the X-wing squadron.

"We certainly can," the Colonel was responding with remarkable equilibrium. Tycho was still trying to comprehend the fact that yesterday he'd have already been trying to kill the Rebel saving his life today. "Colonel Soontir Fel and Lieutenant Tycho Celchu, Black Squadron."

"You didn't say _Black _Squadron?" another Rebel demanded, plainly more impressed by this fact than by the two TIEs trying to stick to his tail and mostly failing. "As in the _Executor_ and the 501st?"

"Yes, that Black Squadron," the Colonel barked, narrowly avoiding a TIE that had tried to escape through their formation and gotten its stabilizers shot off for its trouble. "Or what's left of it."

"We're Red Squadron," said the first Rebel. "Commander Garven Dreis, Red Leader. We're short two, hop on in. Red Two, add them to your wing. I'll switch over to Wing Two."

"Lieutenant Wedge Antilles," Red Two answered, waggling an S-foil at them as they swung wide through a clear stretch of space and began maneuvering into the new formation. "Tuck yourself in next door, Celchu."

"Lieutenant Hobbie Klivian," the guy who must be Red Three added, loping into place between Celchu and the Colonel. "Must be getting kinda lonely there, Red Two, with all of us ex-Imps riding herd on you."

"Can it, _Derek_," Antilles ordered.

"Listen, _Wedgie_," Klivian seethed, "the last time someone called me that name, I hijacked a Star Destroyer and blew up the Imperial security detachment for a whole system." Tycho suspected it was an exaggeration, but not a very big one.

"So take it out on 'em again," Antilles suggested, spurring their wing headlong towards the nearest group of enemy TIEs.

"Just not on _me_," Tycho added before he remembered these guys had only started being on his side a minute ago.

Appreciative laughter burst out from several Rebels over the com, shunting aside his reluctance for the moment. "Deal," said Klivian.

"Com silence, boys," Commander Dreis barked. "Let's go mop those eyeballs off the _Devastator_."

* * *

The docking bay into which Lando staggered was swarming with a whole platoon of stormtroopers. He wearily put his hands up as they frisked him, then let himself be dragged past the _Falcon_'s battered hull towards the officers. The commander was already scowling at Threepio and Artoo, who set up a shrill screech upon spotting Lando.

"Care to explain what you thought you were doing flying into restricted space despite repeat warnings?" the commander spat, fingering his blaster. He looked fairly ticked at having been distracted from the ongoing battle by a couple droids and an idiot who didn't know a mortal threat when it shouted in his ears. Lando had zero sympathy for his troubles.

"I didn't hear the warnings," Lando retorted, "because _that fracking droid _was shooting at me!"

Artoo Detoo screeched fit to raise the dead.

"Funny story," barked the officer, glancing at the translation readout they'd connected to the astromech, "because this fracking droid here is saying that _you_ were shooting at _him_."

"What?" Lando roared, now devoting all his attention strictly to Artoo. "You actually _told _him that, you - "

"He also says," the officer growled, clenching and unclenching his free fist in a fit of irritation, "that you were attempting to use the distraction of the situation out there to steal his master's ship as well as the two of them."

"_I'm going to dismantle you for scrap, you ridiculous lying pile of slag!" _Lando would have launched himself at the tweetling astromech if not for the stormtroopers latched onto his elbows. "Threepio!" he raged. "You tell him what really happened!"

"Oh dear," Threepio said faintly. "The man's gone mad!"

"_Threepio!"_

The deck officer, regarding them all with evident disgust, shoved his cap more firmly on his head. "I don't have time to listen to this racket right now," he growled. "Captain, detain the man at detention block AA-23 for the time being. We'll keep the droids at the command station until we've got the time to question them."

"I'm going to _kill_ you, you fracking – _Threepio_, if you don't – "

"Shut up," snapped the closest stormtrooper, whacking Lando over the back of the head.

* * *

Tarkin's mood had soured through. This conflict was not going at _all_ as predicted. With less than five minutes' contemplation – in fact with only a few seconds, as the regrouped enemy fleet must have used most of those five minutes to coordinate its new battle plan – that insolently precocious Chiss admiral had hit upon the one battle strategy that could negate the overwhelming firepower advantage of the Death Star. The enemy had plunged straight into the midst of Capital Fleet, getting the two sides so entangled that it was difficult for the superlaser firing crew to even keep track of who they ought to target, let alone get a clean shot. Matters were made worse by the fact that some Destroyers had switched sides in the course of the bloody battle. Just to cap it off, a group of Rebel corvettes had broken clear of the main engagement to attack the orbital checkpoint stations. The civilian traffic, already unnerved, had proceeded to lose its collective mind, forcing Tarkin to dispatch a few Destroyers to prevent a stampede.

At this rate, he'd be useless; the Death Star could only sit back and watch while Thrawn and Grant's respective fleets beat each other into pulp. The Emperor would be none too pleased with Tarkin for allowing more than half the Imperial Fleet to be destroyed. Such a reduction in mobile Imperial might could end his reign just as decisively as a coup.

"I think," Tarkin mused aloud, "that we shall have to accept the potential collateral damage."

"The potential collateral damage of what?" Motti barked.

"Of firing on the _Chimaera_."

Motti took one glance at the screen and blanched. The _Chimaera, _which they'd determined was serving as the communications platform for the whole attacking fleet, was at the very middle of the melee, separated from the Death Star not only by its supporting ships and dozens of starfighters but by at least four Destroyers from Capital Fleet. Including Admiral Grant's command ship.

"Tarkin, we don't even know that Thrawn is aboard that ship! You'll risk alienating our own forces from _us_!"

"Fear will keep the Capital Fleet in line," Tarkin replied, "fear that the same fate could befall them. Unless we decapitate the dissident forces we'll win a merely Pyrrhic victory. Without Thrawn most of those Star Destroyers will break off their attack and surrender."

"The Rebels won't," Motti objected.

Tarkin waved a hand. "We can deal with the Rebels." If Bail Organa was anywhere nearby, they might be able to halt the Rebel attack with just one blaster shot – or more accurately, with just one _threatened _blaster shot, through the attractive but conniving head of a certain brunette princess. "This is our best option."

Motti stared, and finally managed a weak nod of consent. Not that Tarkin needed it.

* * *

"I don't believe this is _working_," Torrin breathed. "How on earth could you think of this in just seconds?"

"On the contrary, Admiral," Thrawn rejoined. "How could I take one look at that Death Star and not at once comprehend that the last thing its architects would expect from an outnumbered enemy is a courageous point-blank attack?"

Torrin blinked. "You looked at the _engineering_?"

"I looked at the _art_, Admiral, as should you." Thrawn resumed his contemplation of the battle display screen. "Besides, it's just a stop-gap measure. It won't buy us a victory. We've already lost over three hundred starfighters and a score of capital ships."

"Capital Fleet's losses are higher," Torrin pointed out. "Much higher."

"Capital Fleet isn't the chief threat," Thrawn shot back. "The Death Star is. We're going to take it out."

Torrin's jaw dropped as the battle raged around them; the shouts of the embroiled bridge failed to reach him. "You can't be serious. There's no way we can even put a _dent _in that thing short of a mass kamikaze attack!"

"There's a way," Thrawn said flatly. "Observe – a perfect sphere, isn't it? Clearly much more interior space than the superlaser could possibly require, but the physical form of the weapon was important enough to its designers to be worth a great deal of additional expense in order to achieve it. It reflects a fixation on perfection of specific ideals even at cost of other, more practical considerations. Rest assured that such a fixation _has _left at least one major weakness for us to exploit."

"But _what_?" Torrin retorted furiously. "We haven't even got technical readouts to search, and we wouldn't have _time_ – "

"I'd only need to look at the reactor core and its related systems," Thrawn said. "If we could get those readouts we'd be much better off, but without them our only alternative is to get closer to the station and take the fire onslaught in order to scan for anything we can find."

"_Closer?" _Torrin bellowed, but Thrawn was already on the general broadcast. The remaining fleet commanders' holo images appeared; all of them looked harried. "Fifth Fleet, resume independent formation and move in on the Death Star for reconnaissance," he ordered. "There _is_ a weakness in the design of that battle station and I want your ComScan sections to find it. Focus on the energy systems and extrapolate everything you can. Everyone else, draw up in standard horizontal assault line centered on the _Chimaera_. We'll pin the rest of Capital Fleet closer to the Death Star to provide additional physical screening between Fifth Fleet and its fire. General Madine, any word from the groundside team?"

"No contact yet."

"Excellent," Thrawn said. "A strong indication they're still in pursuit of their objective and have not been halted yet."

The commanders looked a little more optimistic at this encouragement, but not much, seeing as their admiral was about to send them straight into the teeth of the –

"Evasive action!" the navigation officer screamed behind them, at the same time as the projected image of the _Avenger_'s Captain Needa shouted a terrified and unintelligible order to someone out of the pickup field. The next instant the image dissolved in static and the _Avenger _vanished from the scopes, along with one of Capital Fleet's Destroyers. A second javelin of lethal green death screamed through the brand-new gap close enough to the _Chimaera _to blister its hull paint.

"That blast came from the Death Star!" the Rebel Dodonna barked.

"Dear goddess," another Imperial commander moaned, "they _shot through their own ship…_"

"New strategic orders," Thrawn said, shifting course without pause. "All units converge on the Death Star. Fifth Fleet ComScan, I want a least-time estimate of that superlaser's probable point-blank range of fire. Maintain minimum altitude and evade the superlaser's main line of fire. That will allow us the opportunity to find that weakness. _Execute_!"

* * *

Deck Officer Kelmer didn't like being interrupted from the war by pointless civilian squabbles that wandered into his realm of influence, so he made a point of forgetting about the prisoners straightaway when he got back to the station. The corvettes were now tussling with a few Star Destroyers that had split away from Capital Fleet. The com officer was holding forth about the superior maneuverability of corvettes as opposed to the heavier firepower of a Destroyer. Between that and subsequent tangential arguments Kelmer had quite wiped the droids from his memory by the time the protocol unit inched up to him.

"Excuse me, sir, but all this excitement has overwhelmed my counterpart's circuits," he apologized. "I wonder if you might let me take him to Maintenance?"

Kelmer waved him off, also forgetting that letting strange droids wander around Imperial space stations was not, according to security protocol, a wise idea.

* * *

Lando spent the first few minutes of his jail sentence kicking the hatch and calling down curses on Artoo-Detoo's conniving dome. Finally he gave up and looked around his cell. Not even a fresher in here; it was just a temporary holding cubicle inside the detention block. He dropped down on the bench, prepared to indulge in a good long fit of self-pity. He only got in a solid fifteen minutes before the hatch whistled open.

Nobody came in. Warily Lando waited a few seconds, then ventured over and peered out.

The platoon station was deserted. Over the blare of an evacuation alarm a calm female voice said, "Warning: energy leak. Please proceed to the nearest exit. Warning…"

Lando was about to make a beeline for the exit and see if he couldn't find his way back to his ship when the alarms shut off and a new voice came over the com speakers. "Hello? Hello? Artoo, are you _sure _you've got this thing working properly?"

"_Threepio?" _Lando bellowed at the air.

"Yes, Master Calrissian," Threepio's magnified voice answered. "Artoo has hacked into the computer system and diverted the detention block staff. He says that if you proceed to the end of the cell block corridor you'll find a medical wing on the right. Princess Leia is being held there. After that Artoo will give you both directions back to the docking bay."

"You tell Artoo," Lando screeched, "that when I get there I'm going to carve him into mynock sushi!"

An unimpressed whistle cut over Threepio's voice. Growling with outrage, and feeling painfully naked without any kind of weapon, Lando sprinted back down the corridor and hammered the button on the hatch at the end.

Inside a bushy-eyebrowed doctor was hovering over a brunette girl. His gaze jerked up in bewilderment at Lando's appearance. "Don't you think that shirt's a little casual for the Navy?"

* * *

"Leia? Sit up, quickly now."

Moaning and groggy, Leia batted at the hands pulling her upright. "What – what happened?" she got out.

"I'll explain later," said the voice she at last recognized as Dr. Siler's. She blinked her eyes and he swam into view alongside a dark-skinned man she thought she recognized from somewhere…

"This is Lando Calrissian," Dr. Siler said. "He's breaking us out."

"No," spat Lando Calrissian, "that insufferable little trash can…" He trailed off as Siler raised an eyebrow. "Never mind. Let's just get out while we can, right?"

"Wait," Leia snapped as her wits came rushing back at last. "I met you on Corellia!"

"Yeah, you did," Lando said. "Small galaxy. Can we save the fond memories for later? We really gotta get out of here."

Siler nodded, tossing a hypodermic needle out of his hand onto the floor. Leia noticed a pinprick of blood on her arm before Lando grabbed her hand and sprinted out. They'd been in a medbay, but outside was a long dark corridor that looked like a jail of some kind.

"Where _are _we?" she wheezed as they piled into the only turbolift out.

"The Death Star," said Lando.

"The large battle station we saw on the shuttle," Dr. Siler added. "It tractored us aboard."

"Where's Captain Landre?" Leia panted, but then a voice came over the speakers in the lift.

"Artoo says that at the bottom of the lift, you should take a left and proceed fifty meters," a prissy voice told them. "There will be a hatch on your right leading to a platoon station. Artoo says you can pick up spare blasters and comlinks there. Our frequency will be 22004."

"Who was that?" Leia asked.

Lando's answer was a shocking amount of swearing, interspersed with deadly threats.

"A couple of droids who have hacked into the computers to let us out," Siler translated.

"Didn't they let out Captain Landre?" Leia demanded.

"He's dead, Leia."

Her mouth fell open in horror that people had _died _in the time she'd been unconscious, but right about then the turbolift arrived and they raced down the hall outside. Overhead the alarms were screaming and a voice was saying something about an energy leak. Lando ducked inside the patrol station when they got there and came back with two comlinks and three blasters. Siler scowled when he handed one to Leia, but she refused to let go of it. "I know how to shoot!" she snapped, hefting it with both hands.

"If she gets hurt," the doctor barked at Lando, "you'll answer to Lord Vader for it."

"What about if _I _get hurt?" Lando demanded. "I've already been roped into more than I bargained for!" He switched on the comlink and connected to the right frequency. "Now what, Threepio?"

The droids gave them directions through a roundabout series of corridors and turbolifts, all of them screaming with energy leak alarms. The Imperials had evacuated – but Leia figured it couldn't be that long before somebody got suspicious about there being so many energy leaks all at once and took a careful look at the security cam feeds. The same thought seemed to have occurred to Lando.

"Threepio!" he snarled into the comlink as they dashed around a corner. "The scenic route is all well and good but I've got places to be. You tell that scheming outsized multitool pal of yours to dig us up a shortcut or I'm gonna – "

"Duck!" Siler bellowed. A squad of troopers had appeared down the new corridor, sprinting towards them, blasters roaring in sequence. Lando dove behind a doorjamb and sent off a volley of cover fire while Siler and Leia sprinted through. They took a sharp left at the first chance –

Straight onto a narrow bridge over an unexpected chasm. From above rained blaster fire from a second group of troopers leaning over a higher bridge aperture – they ran for dear life and got across, sealing the door and blasting the control panel behind them – sprinting towards the turbolift at the end of the corridor as Threepio railed at Artoo over the com speaker –

And yet a third squad emerged from the turbolift. Siler seized Leia and ducked behind a corner while Lando opened fire. It fell silent. The doctor clapped a hand over Leia's eyes and half-carried her for several meters until they got to the turbolift. Its hatch shut out the grisly scene.

"What was that?" Lando scowled at Siler as he checked the charge on his blaster's gas pack and rubbed a bandage wrapped around one of his legs. "What do you think I gave you the blaster for?"

"What do you think I got a _medical degree_ for?" Siler retorted. "So I could go around creating extra patients?"

"You're gonna _be _a patient if you don't start firing that thing – "

The turbolift whooshed back open in the middle of Lando's retort and brought them face to face with three armed stormtroopers, who hesitated for a moment in sheer surprise. The next moment they were all hit by the same stun blast and fell in a jumble of white armor over the threshold.

Lando and Siler stared in silent amazement at Leia, whose blaster muzzle was still smoking slightly. She glared up at them. "Well, _somebody_ had to save our skins!"

* * *

tbc...


	58. Caught in the Crossfire

**CHAPTER 58**

**'Caught in the Crossfire"**

* * *

"Artoo, someone's going to _notice_ you!" Threepio wailed in whispery tones. "You've downloaded their route here, there's nothing more you have to do! We've just got to guide them here over the comlink! Why don't we find a nice quiet corner where we won't be seen and wait for them there?"

Artoo fired back an insolent retort and continued into a reckless-sounding speech.

"What do you mean, you're downloading the technical readouts to the battle station?" Threepio demanded in a hiss. "What in the Empire could we possibly need those for?"

A rapid series of twitters accompanied the busy swiveling of Artoo's dome.

"You're going to transmit them to the Rebel flagship?" Threepio stepped back, regarding Artoo curiously. "You don't really think they'll find a weakness, do you?"

Artoo chirped the verbal equivalent of a shrug.

"I suppose you're right, it can't hurt to try." Then Threepio glanced around. "What am I saying? Of _course_ it can hurt! The longer you stay around this computer terminal the more likely it is someone will notice us! We'll be sent to Kessel for scrap metal, smashed into who knows what!"

Artoo flashed a red light and blatted a snide comeback.

"I _am_ being quiet, you overgrown trash compactor!"

* * *

What had possessed him? _What had possessed him? _

This was the question which burst through Bail Organa's brain every time another explosion illuminated space near _Home One_. He was a politician by trade, not a warrior, and this battle was a doozy even by Rieekan's seasoned standards, so what the _hells _was he doing in the middle of it?

The original plan, he reminded himself fondly, had been to sit back and observe on the front lines, thereby demonstrating his solidarity with the rest of the Alliance in its ultimate challenge while keeping one eye on Thrawn and the other out for Leia. Half an hour of space combat to the death had shot the original plan out the airlock. Bail Organa, once upon a time as pacifist an Alderaanian as they came, had now been pressed into duty manning the bridge cannon turret because the usual operator had had to go replace a dead gunner at one of the critical weapon mounts in the forward part of the cruiser.

He was an atrocious shot, which was irrelevant – what with all the traffic out there, even he couldn't help hitting _something_. The starfighters could get away from him, and he might even find it hard to land a laser on the enemy Destroyers, but all else failing there was the Death Star. Hard to miss a target that occupied fully a quarter of his firing range. At least he could say he'd put a few pockmarks in its shiny new surface; not that it would be any consolation to Breha when he turned up dead.

It certainly looked like he was headed that way, along with everyone else. Once the Death Star began firing into the melee Thrawn had ordered them into a point-blank engagement with it as well. Though skirmishing so close to the station brought everyone within range of its thousands of cannon placements, it also made it harder for the superlaser to hit any of them. The semi-spherical wall of Capital Fleet still stood between them and the far hemisphere of the Death Star. Rieekan had already commed Thrawn with the idea of forming a single spearhead phalanx and making a concerted charge to circle to the opposite side from the emitter dish, but the suggestion had been rejected. Apparently Thrawn felt the station's weaknesses were most likely to be located in the vicinity of the superlaser. Bail couldn't disagree with him that they'd have no hope of victory without finishing off that mechanical monstrosity.

Which was why Bail felt there was no hope of victory whatsoever.

He swung his seat around, ordering such defeatist thoughts into retreat, and tried to lead his line of fire on a string of TIEs. Thrawn had achieved the impossible just by keeping their offense alive through this much of the battle; perhaps he could whip that miracle out of his sleeve too.

Bail glanced at his readout and found the _Chimaera _after a brief search – flitting around in the middle of the mayhem, flirting with the superlaser's lethal beams in its daring search for a potential weakness to exploit. Nearby the other group of Rebel cruisers, led by the _Mon Ramonda _under Dodonna's command, dodged and darted around the encroaching enemy Destroyers, attempting to keep them off the _Chimaera_, free her sensors for reconnaissance –

As he watched a new Destroyer broke away from a tangle with two _Victory_-class ships and charged the _Chimaera _head on – her navigation officer whipped her nose up, powering the Destroyer out of the collision path –

_Directly into the superlaser's line of fire!_

"No!" Rieekan shouted – Bail heard a strangled gasp from Mon –

A great ball of fire blossomed outward, obscuring their sensors, and faded back away…

There was the _Chimaera_, still cruising on her course and just clearing the firing zone, singed but otherwise unscathed.

But the _Mon Ramonda_, which had dashed into the breach an instant before, no longer existed.

* * *

"Holy frigging shavit," Wedge's voice gasped over Tycho's com. Tycho didn't answer; he was still gaping at the intrepid billow of fading fire which had been the second Rebel command cruiser.

"Well fought," the Colonel said, and the still-operating part of Tycho's mind agreed. _Well fought _was the highest compliment the Colonel ever gave anyone, and after that heroic sacrifice it didn't occur to Tycho to be surprised that he would bestow it on Rebel dissidents.

"Save it," Red Leader ordered them over the com. "Keep up your visual scanning, boys, we've still got – "

A stray shot from a Destroyer sprinted at them out of nowhere and eradicated Commander Dreis between one word and the next. "Red Leader!' one of the Rebel pilots shouted an instant too late.

"Close it up, close it up!" the Colonel snapped, forgetting he wasn't in command of the squadron.

"Confirm that!" Wedge Antilles barked. "Reform and adjust to sixty-five by twelve, Fresian Dive!"

"Red Two, you've assumed command?" the Colonel demanded as he and Tycho tried to follow suit without the benefit of knowing what, exactly, a Fresian Dive maneuver was. It turned out to be a sort of arc-dive-spiral combination.

"Affirmative, Black One," Antilles answered.

"Red Two, course sixty-five by twelve appears to point right at that big nasty enemy Destroyer up ahead," Klivian observed. "Aren't we supposed to be engaging enemy starfighters?"

"We _will _engage the enemy starfighters, Red Four," Antilles returned patiently. "But hey, if we happen to torpedo that bad boy's shield generator and bridge while we're in the neighborhood, so much the better, right?"

Colonel Fel shouted an appreciative laugh. Tycho shook his head with a shaky grin, adjusting the seal of his helmet. These Rebels were going to get them all killed if it was the last thing they did – so why was he almost enjoying the ride?

* * *

Vader should have attacked the instant Luke appeared, while the Emperor was still flabbergasted. But Vader was too startled himself to seize the fleeting opportunity and by the time it might have occurred to him, his son – _Padmé_'s son – was shrieking and writhing under the same onslaught of vicious lightning that had sent Jedi Masters to their deaths, and the Force was white-hot with Luke's pain and his rage and the Emperor's savage delight. He didn't see a small teenage boy or a practiced old killer or even a Corellian street rat diving behind the projector for cover – his mind projected Padmé into place, surrounded by the hell of Mustafar, and the screams and pain were hers all over, and he _couldn't let it happen again_.

If Vader had been brilliant, he would have attacked seconds ago. If he'd been logical, he would have waited another few seconds for Ferus Olin to reach him, for the twin advantages of superior numbers and fresh surprise. But Vader at the moment was nothing but enraged.

In the back of his mind, Ferus Olin tried to get his attention – the Jedi could sense the plan falling to pieces – _wait, we've got to take him together – _

_NO, NOW! _his fury demanded.

His fury was far louder.

With an enraged bellow, Vader launched himself at the Emperor, forgetting in his wrath everything he knew about the effects of power surges on electronic equipment.

With an animal snarl, the lightning turned on him.

He caught the first few surges on the blade before a tendril grounded on his left hand. A brutal tsunami of raw energy instantly ravaged his life support systems and hurled him to the floor in a flood of agony, gasping weakly for breath.

* * *

"Oh _shavit_!" Ferus snarled as he and Master Yoda sprinted out of the secret turbolift, writhing through the pipes towards their planned entry point. Echoes of a nasty fight now reached them through the wall; between that and the thrashing currents of pain ripping through the Force, it was obvious that Vader had abandoned the plan and tried to take on the Emperor alone.

It was just as obvious that it wasn't going well.

"Quick," Yoda said. His downturned ears were the only other indication of frustration. Ferus drew a deep breath, ignited his lightsaber, and swung into the wall. A final eruption of energy outside masked the clamor of the collapsing permacrete and marble panels, buying them one precious instant more. In a single smooth bound both Jedi leapt out into the throne and up, straight up in a Force-powered spring towards the underside of the dais platform – Yoda thrust out a triclawed paw and the floor rent asunder to admit them.

"You pitiful Jedi _fool_," the Emperor was snarling. The shrieking metal behind him cut off his diatribe and set him spinning to face this new enemy. Ferus thought he'd never see an uglier expression on a human face. Then Palpatine recognized Yoda and produced one even worse.

"It seems my Palace had become a veritable rat's nest for Jedi vermin tonight," he hissed, summoning his lightsaber into his hand. Ferus glanced behind him and swallowed a fresh curse – Vader was down, stirring but feebly, and not far beyond on the Emperor's other side young Luke Skywalker had crawled up as far as his hands and knees. His eyes widened as he saw Ferus and Yoda. Even further back, Han Solo's face emerged from behind a projector mount.

Yoda spotted Luke, and his ears ticked a notch lower.

"Attacked an innocent child you have," he said severely. "A better definition of vermin, that is. Permit this I will not." He flicked an ear at Luke, who scooted backwards behind the projector, tugged by Han as his eyes clung to Vader.

"I am a Master of the Dark Side and the ruler of this galaxy," the Emperor spat. "I have no need of your permission, Master Jedi."

"At an end, your rule is," Yoda returned, taking his lightsaber in hand.

The Emperor cackled. "Do you imagine you stand better odds than last time with that weakling Padawan to back you up?" He gestured dismissively at Ferus. "The Force is with _me_, not him. I have such powers as he could not begin to imagine, let alone possess!"

"Understand nothing of the true nature of the Force, you do," Yoda retorted. "Defeated you will be this night."

Palpatine sneered and activated his red blade with a broad brandish. "You are welcome to try, Jedi."

Ferus found his voice as he slid into support position next to Master Yoda. "There _is _no try," he said simply, and swept his igniting blade down to stop the first slash short.

* * *

"Oh _shavit_," Han swore as the sparks started – literally – to fly. "Are you okay?" he hissed, turning away from the terrifying battle back to Luke.

Luke nodded – his breath was catching too hard in his chest for him to answer aloud, which meant he probably _wasn't _okay exactly, but what could Han do about it? "You?" he got out.

"Yeah," Han panted. "Okay, all systems go. Let's get the hell out of here." He seized Luke's arm and started dragging him in a sort of crouching run towards the stairs. At this Luke suddenly found some reserves of energy.

"No!" he cried, lunging forward. "Father!"

"Come _on_, kid!" Han yelped, struggling to make headway towards the stairs, but Luke wrenched free, then sprinted towards his father, lying crumpled on the floor and all because of _him_ –

A scorching line of condensed scarlet energy split the air not four centimeters from Luke's ear – the Emperor had leapt backward and just missed Luke on his backswing. He halfway twisted with a snarl as he whipped his sword arm backwards and up, obviously planning to correct the mistake, but a green cannonball torpedoed into the gap and intercepted the blow with his own saber. Luke tripped over Han in his haste to backpedal –

Then the Emperor performed a sort of flying vault – Han couldn't believe this demonic acrobat was the same cane-tapping old geezer of just minutes before – and landed on Yoda's _other _side and made a beeline for Luke.

Han snatched Luke's hand, hauled him backwards, hefted him under one arm, and vaulted over the rail of the dais for dear life. Behind him in his peripheral vision he saw the other Jedi bounce over top of the Emperor and block in midair the lunge that otherwise would have deprived one Han Solo of his head. What _was _this, the galaxy's most lethal game of leapfrog or –

The floor, several meters below, arrived with astounding force. Off-balanced by Luke's weight on one side, he landed far too hard on his right foot and gave a howl as it snapped out from beneath him. He heard Luke's breathless grunt as his back hammered into the marble, but couldn't see for the daze of painful stars swimming across his eyes. His ankle burned. He tried to get up, only to stumble to his hands and knee with a yelp. Luke was still on his back, rolling sideways in the quest to get air back into his lungs. Han twisted his head to look back above; the garden troll Jedi was hopping back and forth on the railing like an Ostian jumping bean in a frying pan, batting at the Emperor as if he was playing a death match of Mynock Whacker II.

As long as it was keeping that ancient homicidal maniac's attention away from them, Han really didn't care. "Luke, you okay?"

Luke was up on one elbow now, coughing and nodding as he fought to push himself back to his feet.

"Good." Han forced himself up, seized Luke's upper arm, and took off at the fastest pace his brand-new limp would permit for the gigantic double doors.

They'd gotten halfway across the space between the stairs and the doors when a siren shrieked somewhere outside. An instant later the doors burst apart. Han froze in his tracks as more than a dozen red-robed, Force-pike-wielding, enormously ticked Imperial goons poured through.

"Kid, we're fracked," he said, and then berated himself for wasting his last breath on something so predictable.

* * *

Still no telling who had the upper hand – the fight was too fast, and too early; none of them had yet taken the measure of their opponent. All Ferus could say for sure was that he, personally, was way out of his league – or would be if not for Master Yoda. Wouldn't be so bad if he didn't have to worry about not just the actual swordplay but also about keeping the action away from those boys –

The Emperor found himself suddenly in range of Luke Skywalker, who had tried to make a dash towards Vader's inert form – Yoda sprang in to block, Palpatine bewitched his evasion into a fresh attack, and Ferus found himself making a modestly impressive second block from behind while still airborne. He landed on both feet and dropped and rolled, not stopping to reflect on his momentary success. Behind him the older boy snatched up the younger and made a harebrained escape over the railing. The Force flared an instant later with pain, but what did it matter, so long as they were alive and out of Palpatine's immediate reach?

Free to focus on the fight, Ferus planted a hand on the deck and powered up, batting aside a strike from the Emperor as he rose back into guard position. Yoda distracted him with a slash towards the eyes; it spun up off of Palpatine's effortless counter. Unperturbed, the last Jedi Master spun on one foot, following the momentum of his blade and redirecting it into a lethal side swing – no, a feint, he'd shunted back to the side and flicked the tip towards the Emperor's chin – Palpatine dodged it even as he whirled his own blade up from the left to preempt Ferus' overhead chop –

And at the same time, his other hand thrust out, pointing vindictively at the armrest of the throne. A red light blazed - a siren shrieked. Ferus' gaze flicked sideways just in time to see the Imperial Guard pour through the main entrance. The red-robed enemy fanned out, several of them chasing down the boys - pikes raised.

He tried to break away – Yoda would just have to handle the Sith Master on his own for a few minutes – but with a gleeful leer and a flurry of aggressive stabs the vile old man drove him backwards, cackling. Han and Luke vanished behind the temporary shelter of the staircase, the guards in hot pursuit –

Blaster fire shrieked and bestial roars erupted, echoing through the cavernous room. At that unexpected addition to the cacophony everyone stopped in their tracks and searched for the source. It didn't take any of them more than a nanosecond to spot it.

There is nothing very subtle about a charging, howling, bowcaster-wielding horde of bloodthirsty Wookiee warriors.

* * *

"Are those _Wookiees_?" Han hissed at Luke. He was scowling in furious incredulity as they pressed themselves under the staircase, hoping that in the pitchy shadows they might not be noticed the very same second the guards came in after them.

Luke shrugged as best he could while lying on his side and twisting his head to try and peer up between the marble slats. "Yeah," he muttered. "Lots of them."

Han arched his neck to get a glimpse and whistled. "Damn." The guards who'd been pursuing them had turned back, drawn into a melee with the Wookiees which started out as a relatively civilized exchange of fire but soon became a barbaric brawl. Several bolts screamed their way, blasting great gaps in the stairs; Han dropped and threw his arms over his head.

The barrage of energy at first kept the teens flat on their stomachs for cover, but soon enough both sides gave up firing their weapons in favor of using them to physically beat the enemy. Metallic smashes resounded everywhere, punctuated by squeals of energy and the smack of furry fists on plasteel armor. Han risked surfacing for another look. No way they'd get to that main entrance now. "Alright," he shouted over the din, "on my mark, kid, we're gonna make a dash for that side door! _Go!"_

They sprang to their feet and sprinted from behind the stairs according to plan.

Not according to plan, Luke then turned on a decicred and took off _up _the stairs. Han skidded to a halt and managed to snag his hand. "Stang it, Luke! You can't help your father if you go get yourself killed – "

Luke screamed, "_Duck!"_

Han glanced up and saw a Force pike soaring at their heads. He let go of Luke – they threw themselves down – away from each other –

With an almighty bellow of energy the pike speared through the durasteel stair. Han tore his eyes away and saw the guard who'd thrown it at them heading their way. If those things could tear apart durasteel, his pitiful torso didn't stand a snowflake's chance in the Dune Sea –

A spray of laser fire perforated the marble between them; Han flung himself further back as Luke scrambled up the staircase, hunkering low by the edge – a Wookiee slammed into the guard, swinging a bowcaster at his head as the guard tore his pike out of the _BAM_

Flash of black. Explosion of glittering specks in his vision. Cold floor against his left cheek. Heavy, musty fur against his right.

Han rolled out from beneath a heavy weight, blinking and quivering and trying to see what had hit him. It turned out to be a Wookiee who'd taken a full-strength stab from a Force pike and gone hurtling right into Han's side. The Wookiee whined its death moan. Han paused for a second and then wrested the bowcaster out of its hands. He pushed himself up, wincing as pain pounded through his ankle and head, and started back towards the stairs – Luke had gotten clear past the midway landing already – but the raging battle veered in his direction, proceeded by a barrage of laser fire from the remaining Wookiees, and he had to swing himself under the stairs again instead.

* * *

Luke had to duck stray shots every few seconds as he inched up the stairs, but was so intent on getting to his father and helping him somehow that neither the brawl below nor the vicious duel above mattered. He _couldn't _leave his father like this! Desperately Luke nudged at him in the Force – but his father's aura, usually so cold and powerful and big, did nothing but flicker in response to his frantic prodding.

There, the top stair – he flattened himself against the steps and lifted his chin to survey. The human Jedi bounded over the throne, launched a series of furious swipes, got the momentum for a few seconds. But the Emperor parried them all and found an opening for his own stab, which the Jedi deflected just short of his ribcage –

He threw himself down as a sheet of violent blue lightning exploded from the Sith Master's fingers. Master Yoda appeared from the far side and with his bare paw deflected most of the blast back at the Emperor – the red blade jerked up and the energy rebounded again –

Luke lunged to the side as some of it struck into the staircase, writhing across the railing. He avoided the lightning, but not the Emperor's notice.

Ahead of both Jedi he charged. Luke thought for a hellish moment he was back at Bast Castle being pursued by deranged dueling droids. Following an instinct which told him it was the last move Palpatine would expect, he dove forward beneath the descending blade and swung his legs out of the way by a hair, then grabbed the Emperor's flying cloak to haul himself up. Thrown off balance, Palpatine stumbled, giving Luke just enough time to stand.

Scarce had he got to his feet before a wave from Yoda sent him flying away behind the throne for cover. He tumbled to the floor and looked back around to see both Jedi converge again on the Emperor – Yoda was dashed away by an invisible battering ram – the human Jedi had to backpedal down the stairs to avoid another powerful shock, and his foot shot off the edge of a step and he reached up to catch the rail and stop a terrible fall –

The Emperor's red blade swiped down and a terrible scream knifed the air. Luke flinched at the awful sight of the scorched stump where the Jedi's hand had been a moment ago.

The Emperor howled with glee – lunged towards the kill –

But the Jedi hadn't lost his lightsaber hand. With an awesome effort of will he surged to his feet and blocked the powerful downward blow, one straining arm against two and the weight of gravity.

The Emperor snarled. He leaned down with all his power, wringing every ounce of advantage out of his superior position. Somehow his opponent held out for one second, two, three, four – then Yoda had come to the rescue, hurtling bodily into Palpatine with an eerie battle cry just as the wounded Jedi's strength gave out. The red lightsaber scraped down and flew free of the block, plowing an ugly furrow from the Jedi's hip down past his knee. With another gasp of agony he collapsed on the stairs. He was out of the fight, but not dead at least. Yoda and the Emperor careened down the staircase, a whipping frenzy of crashing, snarling light.

Luke scrambled to his feet and dashed the remaining distance to his father's side.

* * *

Han decided to make another try for the staircase once the fight seemed to be shifting far enough from him. He got up the first few stairs just in time to see Luke evade the evil old zombie's murderous laser sword by millimeters.

"Luke!" he yelled, and grabbing his bowcaster started a mad dash upward, pain bursting through his injured ankle at every step – but another round of stray laser fire from the Wookiees and the guards sent him sprawling flat on the stairs, covering his head as chips of marble flew and nicked his cheeks and hands. He brushed the debris off and pushed himself up on his hands and tripped over the very next stair when an awful scream resounded from above.

He couldn't see who'd yelled, but he did see the other human Jedi take a brutal slash down his whole side right as the crazy little green gnome rammed into the Emperor. The two remaining combatants started tussling down the stairs…towards _Han_.

He spun around and tore back down the stairs with an arm over his head to shield his eyes from blaster shrapnel. Problem was, he also shielded them from the fact that he was about to run straight into the backside of an Imperial guard.

The guard whirled reflexively, his Force pike already heading for Han's gut oh fracking shavit he was _dead_ –

The guard staggered forward like a sledgehammer had caught him in the back. His head lolled loosely sideways, as if clinging to his shoulders by will and a couple strips of space tape. The pike dropped out of his hand; he tumbled forward into a limp pile of red cloth and charred armor. Han looked down at the scorched laser wound right at the join between his helmet and back plate. Then he looked up, across the room, into the eyes of a Wookiee for the briefest of moments.

The next moment the Wookiee was also a lump on the ground, except instead of a blaster bolt to the neck he'd taken a pike through his chest. Han dropped to the floor, flattening himself beside the dead guard so as not to be noticed by whoever was still left. Not many now – the guards and the Wookiees had just about finished each other off. Two of each remained, locked in one-on-one combat that involved mostly wrestling and bashing each others' heads. Stray bolts shot off in all directions as weapons were banged around. A few of them, Han thought irritably, might even have been fired on purpose.

He risked a glance back up the stairs. Luke was nowhere to be seen, but the green troll had driven the Emperor back up the stairs and off to the right. Han reckoned Luke must be on the left side, where Vader had fallen, near the projector. This was his chance. Gripping the bowcaster for dear life, wishing he could yell, Han got to his feet and hobbled up at his best speed.

* * *

The world came and went in flickers, blinking in and out through the badly damaged vision screen of his mask. His respirator, possibly the most heavily ruggedized piece of electronic machinery in the known galaxy, was still stubbornly limping along, just functional enough to prevent him from suffocating outright, but it was steadily failing and probably wouldn't last more than another hour. The compensators and power cells in his prosthetics were shot – he could move them only under his own strength, which after that barrage of lightning was practically nonexistent. Perhaps with the aid of the Force –

He'd do what? He was a wrecked hulk, incapable of protecting himself or anyone else.

_Luke_, his drifting thoughts murmured. _Where is Luke? _

The Force would not come to him, he was too weak, too tormented – all he could hear were the screams and squeals and sizzling of the duel raging nearby. Ferus Olin had arrived and decided to take the Emperor without him; he'd brought another Jedi along for the ride. By a steady process of deduction that would have been far faster if he'd been less catastrophically injured, Vader concluded that Jedi could only be Yoda.

He should have been outraged at Olin for his doublecrossing, and at Yoda simply for being Yoda. But they were the only reason he and Luke weren't already dead.

Defended by the very Jedi he'd betrayed. The humiliation was complete and soundly deserved. To this pass ambition and obsession had taken him, and Obi-Wan Kenobi wasn't here to bear the blame this time. He alone had failed to protect Luke and the twins, and then when he'd discovered Leia he'd used her to further his ambition and take his revenge without regard for her distress. Just as he had failed to protect her mother…

_I never told her_, he realized with another sick wrench of his gut. His lungs fought with extra vigor for one more useless breath. Organa would never lay the burden of such knowledge on his daughter, not after the way she had been misused. _She'll never know…Leia…_

And Sara and Sandra – if Baranne couldn't find them –

"Father!"

Somebody small and determined seized his shoulder and rolled him off his side by dint of raw willpower. Through the blitzing viewscreen he recognized Luke. His son's eyes were wide with terrible emotion. Was he shaking, or was that just the screen malfunctioning? Vader forced his right arm high enough to run a grateful finger down the boy's cheek. Still alive! All the wealth and power of all the empires that had ever existed paled in comparison to this one precious face.

"I'm sorry," Luke moaned over and over again, "I'm sorry…"

The clash of the lightsabers drew nearer, putting his moment of sentiment to flight. He _must _defend her son. Whatever injuries he'd sustained were irrelevant. "Down," he croaked. "Get down…"

Luke characteristically shot to his feet instead, trying to help him as he reached inside for a final reserve of strength and levered himself up on one impossibly heavy elbow. Why waste his scant strength on a pointless reprimand? Just behind the boy Vader spotted his lightsaber lying abandoned on the floor.

"Lightsaber," he managed, gesturing in its direction. Luke seized it and ducked down under his arm, exerting every one of his few kilograms. With both their efforts, Vader made it as far as his knees, where he found he utterly lacked the energy to get any further. Nonetheless he took the hilt out of Luke's hand into his own, locking the prosthetic fingers clumsily and indelicately around the grip, and hoped it would serve him well one last time.

"Get down…" he rasped again. "Go…"

"But I've got to save you!" Luke, still trying doggedly to push him further up, paused to fix his frantic expression on his father.

"I am not worth saving," Vader coughed back. Indeed he wasn't, fool as he had been. He had had every opportunity to whisk Luke away for good, flee with the boy and his sisters into safety beyond the Emperor's reach – and what had kept him dancing on that dangerous wire between his children and his master? Not Bail Organa, not Obi-Wan, but the driving greed for power which had festered so deep he hadn't even realized it for what it was. Leia, whom he'd used as a bargaining chip rather than sending straight to safety. Luke and the twins, whom he'd left at Vjun while he pursued his own ambitions elsewhere. And precious, precious Padmé, who'd begged him to just come away with her, the very thing he'd longed to do so many times during the wars…

No, he had been a worthless fool for decades now. His present physical wreckage served as proof. There was only one fit use remaining for the broken hulk housing his spirit, and that was to plant it between the murderous Emperor and her son – the one truly good thing remaining to him now. Let Palpatine do anything he pleased to this worthless body if it would protect Luke – let the fire of Mustafar swallow him whole –

"Of _course_ you are!" Luke sobbed, smearing tears away. "You're my _father_!" Abandoning his vain effort, he turned and flung his arms around Vader's neck, ignoring the cold, slightly charred armor, nearly knocking Vader down onto the floor once more.

The respirator missed two breaths, and not because of electrical damage.

* * *

tbc


	59. Charge of the Light Brigade

CHAPTER 59

"Charge of the Light Brigade"

* * *

Han, watching the duel as he hobbled cautiously up the stairs, decided that really Jedi and Sith were about equally crazy. The main difference seemed to be that the latter were homicidal, whereas the former were only suicidal. The Emperor pulled no punches in his attempt to finish off the little green demon – bits and pieces of the throne room went flying at the Jedi every few seconds, not to mention blasts of lightning. The Jedi, for his part, considered no maneuver too risky. He buzzed like a nasty green mosquito around the Emperor's ears, pouncing from every possible surface as if gravity and the other laws of physics just didn't apply to him.

Who was going to win it, Han didn't have a clue, except he was pretty sure it wasn't going to be Vader or that keeled-over Jedi at the top of the stairs or one of the Wookiee attackers either –

A hideous bellow made him spin around and look back down the stairs. The last Wookiee standing had just torn a pike out of his own shoulder and driven its butt end through the eyeplates of his goon opponent and out the back of his head by sheer force. With an injured whine he went down on his knees.

But what Han saw and the Wookiee didn't was that there was still one guard left, pushing up from under the corpse of his last opponent with a fallen bowcaster in hand, and he was aiming it dead-on for the Wookiee's head. He was probably exhausted and dizzy from the Wook falling on him.

So Han beat him on the draw.

With a terrific recoil that knocked him off his feet into the stair rail, the bowcaster spat a beam of energy directly into the brains of the last guard, just as the unarmed Wookiee noticed his would-be killer. The guard tumbled down for good, his helmet blasted almost completely away on the right side. The astonished Wookiee stared first at the dead guard and then followed the line of fire to Han.

Han tossed off an awkward salute and did a one-eighty. He'd get to Luke if it _killed _him! If that possessed green fireball could hold the Emperor off just long enough for them to get away, the front door was home-free now –

About ten stairs from the top of the dais, Old Wrinklecheeks finally managed to get an upper hand. The Jedi, battering him with onslaughts one second, just wasn't _there _the next. In his peripheral vision Han spotted it smashing into the far right wall, pursued by a punishing blast of lightning it was too stunned to block. The Emperor lifted a fateful clawed hand and swept a finger down – one of the great velvet drapes tore loose of its suspension and flowed down like a waterfall of blood, crashing in a heavy pile over the downed Jedi. Palpatine regarded his handiwork for a heartbeat before turning slowly around towards the other end of the dais – where Vader was visible once more, leaning on the projector hub now in the midst of a raging little holographic battle that must be taking place over the planet. He had his lightsaber, which was encouraging, but couldn't get off his knees or even lift his head, which was not. Beside him stood Luke.

"Now," the Emperor snarled, "you will finish paying for your treachery, my _apprentice_."

Vader answered, or perhaps spoke to himself, in the weakest voice Han had ever heard from him. "There is…no…death…"

"Fitting that you now revert to your Jedi lies," Palpatine sneered. "They will not save you, any more than they did your allies." He gestured with the tip of his lightsaber towards the crumpled, unconscious form of the Jedi on the stairs. "But before I finish what Kenobi started, I think it only appropriate that you receive the promised recompense for your choice." His lightsaber came up, and Han realized that he was going to kill – not Vader, but _Luke_.

Vader made a sudden, feeble effort to get to his feet, simultaneously trying to press Luke back, but Luke's foot slipped on the cape's fabric and he got pinned in place as Vader lost his balance and swayed against the projector –

_What the hell? _Han asked himself. Then, howling like a madman to drum up good luck, he snapped the bowcaster up and fired for all he was worth, eyes shut tight against what he'd see if he missed. The recoil hurled him down, slamming his side into the steps as the bowcaster swung wide over his head.

A thin shriek attacked his ears. Han opened his eyelids a crack and craned his head around.

The Emperor's ugly yellow gaze was fixed on him in astonishment. His spine bent nearly double, he clutched at a smoking wound located a good bit further south than his head.

_Holy frigging Sithspit_, Han thought in awe, unable to break away from the basilisk stare. _Right in the withered old gonads!_

His elation evaporated the next second. With a superhuman snarl, the indefatigable old corpse staggered around, lifted his lightsaber high, and swung it like an executioner's axe down towards Luke.

"_No!" _Han screamed. The pain in his ankle ceased to even exist as he tried frantically to scramble to his feet, lever the huge leaden bowcaster back into position, take another shot –

"_You will not touch him!" _

How he found the strength neither Han nor Luke nor any number of medical professionals was ever able to say, but Darth Vader lurched to his feet and snapped a mighty arm up to block the path of the descending blade. Luke screamed over the shear of metal and an explosion of sparks – the murderous saber sliced through Vader's arm and plunged past durasteel armor into his ribcage. Undeterred, the dark lord's remaining hand snapped up and seized the Emperor's wrist, knocking the blade from his hand. Han heard the brittle old bone snap an instant before a shaft of scarlet fury burst out of Vader's fist and whipped clean through the ancient, vile-hearted torso.

His infuriated, pained cry cut off into a thick gurgle. The Emperor teetered for an eternal instant. He fell in two gruesome pieces to the floor. Vader swayed over his fallen enemy for another second or two, his inscrutable black gaze finding Han for one of them.

Then he collapsed beside his slain master with thudding finality.

* * *

"There!" Lando shouted, skidding to a halt as they were passing a long viewport. "That's our ride out!" He pointed down at the most dilapidated and least spaceworthy crate that either Dr. Siler or Leia had ever seen.

"You came in _that_ thing?" Leia demanded in disgust. "You're braver than I thought."

"No," Lando snapped, "_I _came in _that _one." He flicked his thumb at the much sleeker yacht perched some meters to the _Falcon_'s right.

"So why can't we take that one instead?" Dr. Siler asked as they picked up speed again towards the turbolift banks at the end of the corridor. Blaster fire peppered the door of the lift as it slid shut. That last squad of troopers wasn't as far behind them as he'd hoped.

"Because it doesn't have quad cannon turrets and the other one does," Lando snarled, lip twisting bitterly. Having to leave the _Luck_ behind stung like a Meldorian tigerbee, no matter how logical a choice it was, and all this being shot at in the middle of his night cycle was making him cranky. "There's a nasty fight going on outside this station and we won't stand a chance of getting away without those turrets."

Dr Siler scowled as he checked the firing mechanism of his blaster. "Define nasty fight."

"You wouldn't believe me," Lando said. The door opened again. "But no problem, you're gonna see it for yourself in a couple minutes."

Miraculously, the docking bay was empty except for a pair of mismatched droids trundling away from the computer terminal. "Oh, thank the Maker!" wailed the tall gold one. The shorter blue-pointed astromech beside it wiggled its front wheel sideways in imitation of a cocky salute.

Lando's lip wrenched into an even uglier snarl. "If I didn't need you to man one of the guns I'd blow you to scrap right now," he hissed at the astromech. "Where's all the goons?"

"In the control station watching the sensors, I believe," Threepio said. "Artoo sealed the blast doors on them."

In fact, a glance around the hangar revealed that Artoo had sealed _all _the blast doors.

"Wait!" Dr. Siler shouted as Lando started to storm aboard their beat-up old escape ship. "What about the tractor beam?"

His answer was a violent explosion of fire from the direction of the turbolift. The squad of troopers chasing them had gotten it to work despite Artoo's mischief with the computers. "Too late!" Lando yelled. Dr. Siler seized Leia's hand and dragged her up the ramp under Lando's covering fire; she twisted around and fired a few shots of her own on the way. Artoo conjured a billowing cloud of steam from one or another of his innumerable gadgets to retard the troopers' accuracy. Threepio was the last aboard, ducking as much as he could and bemoaning his lot the whole way. Lando led the way to the cockpit; behind them the racket of blaster fire was shut out as the ramp sealed them in.

The engines roared to life with unexpected power. Dr. Siler, still trying to cinch Leia's crash webbing, was bowled off his feet and through the cockpit hatch as Lando kicked the sublight drive straight into gear without waiting for the repulsors to get them started. Leia's crash webbing had not been sealed, but the acceleration pressed her so hard into her seat it wasn't needed anyway.

"That's _twice _I've had to do that today," Lando ranted. "Twice!"

Dr. Siler, staggering back into the cockpit with blood streaming from a cut in his forehead, didn't look very sympathetic. Behind him rolled Artoo, who tossed off an insolent beep in response to the dirty look Lando shot over his shoulder.

"Well, that's twice _I've_ been thrown around a ship in one day," Dr. Siler snapped, settling in the enormous copilot's chair, "so I suggest you quit keeping score and find something else to worry about – "

"Like _that_?" Leia cut in.

The freighter had rocketed in a sharp turn under Lando's fuming guidance and they were now staring at a space battle more catastrophic than the most extravagant holovid director could have imagined. Before their eyes an entire Star Destroyer was fragmenting into a miniature sun – slow and dramatic, the explosions splintered through its proud hull, spreading from the bridge to the engine bloc –

In a blinding burst of light, the whole ship and its crew vanished. It took a few seconds before Leia's eyes readjusted enough to see the lancing beams of green and red death criss-crossing space, weaving a lethal veil over the Death Star's terrible face. The destructive spectacle defied Leia to comprehend the number of people that must be dying before her eyes. As she watched a monstrous rod of jade laser spurted out of the station, its origin hidden behind the west horizon – it struck a smaller, bulbous cruiser and wiped it out in the blink of an eye. Whole flights of starfighters screamed in clouds around the capital ships, glittering with dozens of explosions.

"Force help us," Dr. Siler breathed.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Lando said grimly.

"Agreed."

Artoo shrilled and forced his way up between the front seats, plugging himself in to the control console.

"What now?" Lando bellowed, throwing the freighter into a sharp dive to steer them clear of a cluster of skirmishing starfighters.

"Artoo says that the Rebel Alliance High Command is here," Threepio wailed from the cockpit hatch, finally catching up to everyone else. "He says he's got vital intelligence to transmit to them immediately!"

"The _Rebels_?" Dr. Siler snapped with automatic derision, and Lando added, "I'll show _him _vital intelligence – "

"Look out!" Leia screamed. Lando spotted the TIE spiraling out of control into their flight path and wrenched the controls, sending them into a sickening dive straight into the firing zone of the nearest Star Destroyer, and everyone forgot about Artoo entirely for the next few minutes.

* * *

"General Rieekan, we're being hailed by an unknown civilian freighter!" the _Home One_'s com officer cried in astonishment. "Recognition code Bravo-Zulu-Niner-Five!"

"An armed friendly?" Rieekan was sufficiently amazed by this news to be distracted from his coordination of a joint pincer assault on an ailing enemy Destroyer. "Hailing us with _our_ recognition code?"

"In the middle of half the Imperial Fleet, yes, sir." The com officer quirked a wry grin, admiring the Bravo-Zulu's flair. "It's in binary code."

"Patch them to my console," Rieekan demanded. He put a hand to his earpiece to close out the racket of the bridge and brought up the viewscreen. "Bravo-Zulu-Niner-Five, this is Mama Wookiee."

Text shot over the screen. He read for just a few seconds before his eyes bulged wide. One hand wrapped around his receiver, he shouted, "Lieutenant, get me a secure line to Admiral Thrawn! Bail! You'll want to see this!"

* * *

"You have _what_?" Admiral Torrin lurched out of his command console towards the projection that had just announced the most impossible news in the galaxy.

"The technical readouts of the Death Star," General Rieekan repeated.

Torrin, jaw still hanging, turned to see what Thrawn made of this unbelievable report. A maniacal light glowed in the master strategist's red eyes. "General, I'd very much appreciate it if you'd isolate the station's power specifications and transmit them to us."

"Already on its way," Rieekan grinned. Sure enough, the computer display of Thrawn's command chair was streaming the incoming data and layering it into the tri-dimensional orb that represented the Death Star.

"But _how_?" Torrin whispered.

"Bail Organa's astromech droid infiltrated the station and hacked the data out of their computer banks," Rieekan said smugly.

"And _got away with it_," Torrin murmured, shaking his head at the thought of all this might mean.

"It's aboard a civilian freighter," Rieekan continued, now with gravity. "Call sign _Millennium Falcon_. We've learned they're carrying medical personnel and a minor. We're trying to cover its exit route from the battle as much as possible."

"I'll forward the word to the fleet," Thrawn assured him. "Stand by until we've had a chance to analyze the data and find our opening."

Rieekan's response was a savage grin.

* * *

"Watch your tail, Black Four!" Klivian sang over the com. Tycho twisted his mouth into what he thought was a grin, though an objective observer would probably have called it a ravenous snarl.

"I see him, Red Four!" He completed his answer by somersaulting his fighter sideways and dipping into a tight loop that brought him back around to the enemy's tail, leading with a spray of fire from his laser cannons. The hapless TIE burst into a fireblossom. Someone whistled his appreciation.

"Not half bad, Black Four," Klivian allowed. His nimble X-wing rocketed past, drawing off the forward fire of the Destroyer they'd been harassing. Down through the brief gap in the defenses shot Red Five, Wes Janson, with Red Six (Jek Porkins) and Red Nine (Zev Senesca) hot behind him. The three fanned out, blazing so low to the Destroyer's hull they could have scraped off paint, and then splintered after their respective targets – Janson and Senesca bored in on the bridge shield generator from converging angles and blew it apart, opening the way for Porkins to swat the bridge out of existence with a proton torpedo. The decapitated Destroyer started a long tumble out of formation, which ended a few minutes later as the great ship slammed into the Death Star's southern hemisphere. The fusion reactor in her engines exploded, turning the Destroyer into a gigantic thermal detonator that painted a great scorched swath over the battle station's surface.

"That got him!" Red Five crowed.

"Nice shot, Six," Colonel Fel's voice crackled. The squadron sped back from its scattered positions and reformed into a tight attack group.

"Way to nail her, boys," Wedge Antilles said. "Hang tight and switch to command channel – the brass have a memo coming."

"It better be about my raise," Senesca said. "Cause I am _way_ overdue – "

"You wouldn't know a paycheck if it shot off your stabilizers, Nine, and if you don't switch the channel now _you're_ gonna be paying _me_."

"Roger that, boss." The com chatter went silent an instant before Admiral Thrawn's crisp accent echoed out into Tycho's fighter.

"Attention all ships. We have analyzed an exploitable weakness in the Death Star's defenses. At Sector N-12-12 is located an energy exhaust port two meters in diameter which affords a direct route to the station's reactor core. This port can be reached by an access trench large enough to admit a snub fighter. The port is ray-shielded, preventing any laser bombardment, but a proton torpedo if fired accurately should be able to enter the port and deliver its payload to the reactor core, initiating a catastrophic destabilization that will destroy the station."

A horrible groan twisted Tycho's stomach. No Imperial TIE fighter, not even his own Advanced model, carried proton torpedoes – energy armaments were more effective and didn't eat up as much space. The _lambda _shuttles did, but would not fit into the access trench.

The Rebel X-wings and Y-wings, however, _did _carry proton torpedo banks.

It was up to the Rebels now.

"Maneuverability in this trench is estimated at less than two percent," Thrawn continued, at which news Tycho's stomach did another flip of horror. "It is defended by turbolaser tower mounts. You are recommended to attack in groups of three, allowing the lead fighter to focus on the target while the rear pair engage the towers. TIE squadrons of Sixth Fleet, you are ordered to engage as many enemy fighters as possible to give our attack squadrons clean runs. On my mark, all capital ships will reform into a conical phalanx and proceed under my command towards the outer system with the intent of drawing the man body of the enemy after us."

The transmission ended. The squad channel flicked back on.

"Well," Klivian sighed, "this is gonna bite like a krakana."

* * *

"They're running!" Admiral Motti hissed, slapping a triumphant hand on his console. Tarkin scowled at the display. Thrawn, apparently having had his fill of suicidal point-blank tactics, had indeed reformed his surviving forces into an attack cone. The insurgents were blasting a persistent path through the fence formation of Capital Fleet, heading away from the Death Star's lethal emitter dish towards deep space.

"Not all of them," he said after a moment's cold observation. "Those corvettes are still behind us."

Motti snorted. "They're nothing but tin cans."

"Curiously determined tin cans," Tarkin retorted. "I'm sure they're as well aware of their relative weakness as we are, yet they remain behind while the main force flees. That indicates priorities other than escape."

"Self-sacrificing anarchist Rebel scum," Motti spat. "What more explanation do you need?"

"The corvettes concern me," Tarkin said, "less than the starfighters."

While the majority of the enemy starfighters had sped away with their mother ships, about a hundred TIEs lingered in furious combat around the Death Star, as well as a startling number of Rebel starfighters, which kept forming in stubborn triad patterns and making suicidal dashes into an access trench in the northern hemisphere of the station.

"Whatever they're up to," Motti growled, "it's failing. Between the tower cannon placements and our pursuit squads, the only thing they're doing is getting themselves killed faster."

"Something they would not be doing without good reason," Tarkin said sharply. "Check with the analysts. I want to know what they're so determined to hit."

* * *

When this day was over – if he survived it – Soontir Fel knew he would have nightmares about its carnage for years. The gruesome, extravagant destruction of Destroyer after Destroyer full of Imperial naval personnel had been hideous enough. It was not nearly as awful as the unabashed butchery raging around him now. The erstwhile commander of Black Squadron had earnestly hated the Rebels a day ago; after less than an hour fighting alongside them his brain retched at the spectacle of pilot after courageous pilot throwing himself headlong into the death trap of the access trench, seeking to make the shot that would end the battle with the worst massacre yet. The better-armored Y-wing squadrons had made the first several attempts. Out of the forty-eight that had started the attack, his scopes now registered one.

_One. _

Red Squadron had split apart by now, freestyling in its separate wings and doing its dead level best to harry the enemy TIEs away from the desperados braving the trench. The other X-wings had been with them, but were thinning out as they too threw their heads one by one under the axe.

"This is it, boys!" Zev Senesca called over the channel. Twenty years from now Soontir Fel would still wake up in a cold sweat at the memory of Red Five, Six, and Nine beginning the death plunge with ferocious whoops, but the trained combat pilot part of his brain forced the horror out of thought for now.

"Red Squadron drop down and cover them!" Wedge Antilles knew perfectly well he couldn't make much of a difference by hazing the Imperial starfighters who were going to drop down on his pilots' tails to pick them off like nerf pups in a pen, which wasn't about to stop him or the rest of his squad from trying anyway.

The warrior in Soontir Fel had begun to think quite highly of Wedge Antilles.

"Affirmative, Red Leader," he said, following the others down. "You heard him, Black Four – "

"Not necessary, Black One," Antilles snapped. "TIE squadron orders are to remain above and divert the enemy starfighters."

"Understood, Red Leader," Soontir answered, "but today I'm flying with Red Squadron."

"Second that, Black One," Tycho piped up.

The waste to which it was being put had made them all extravagant spenders of courage, as if the vanity of the effort spurred them to dare everything and win tragic glory to compensate for their defeat. Janson, Porkins, and Senesca tore down the trench at full throttle, something none of the others had dared yet in such close quarters, while the rest of Red Squadron brought the battle within inches of the station's croppings and conning towers and turrets. It was like dancing in fire, it would last forever – Zev Senesca passed into the annals of legend as his fighter erupted around him, struck from behind by the pursuing TIEs – Wes Janson spiraled out of control away from the station, struck in his aft stabilizer by a shot from a tower, he was out of the fight – but _Porkins_ –

"Torpedoes away!" Porkins shouted. "Take _that, _you motherless gob of slime!"

"Did it go in?" somebody demanded as his fighter peeled away from the station.

There was a pregnant pause. "Negative," Porkins announced heavily. "Impacted on the surface – shavit!"

A turbolaser had found the elusive Red Six at last.

"Pull up, Jek!" Klivian shouted.

"I can hold it!" Porkins yelled back.

He couldn't. The compensator, badly damaged, failed him. Spouting flame his fighter hurtled into the station's surface, erasing him.

Wedge Antilles inhaled deep. "Black One, Black Four, are you still with us?"

Their number was up.

"Affirmative," Celchu said, and Soontir echoed him.

"We're going in," Antilles ordered. "Full throttle, it's our only chance of getting past those towers and keeping the fighters off our backs. Red Four, Black Four, fall in behind me; I'll take point. Black One, hang tight above. When you spot those enemy fighters I want you to come in behind them and give them a bit of their own medicine."

"With pleasure, Red Leader," Fel snarled.

* * *

tbc...


	60. Stay Awake

CHAPTER 60

"Stay Awake"

* * *

This was it.

_I'm sorry, Nyiestra_, Tycho thought, rubbing a regretful finger on the side of the holo of his girlfriend he'd stuck to his cockpit viewport. She'd never know what had happened to him, most likely. He wished that somehow someone would tell her that he'd died well, spitting in the face of evil.

"Go big or go home, boys," Antilles shouted as they plunged towards the trench.

Its gray sides flashed up around them, and in just a moment the turbolaser shots poured towards them. "Switch all power to forward deflectors!" Klivian called.

Tycho's gloved hand slid for a moment on the control but he got the deflection forces leveled in time to shunt aside an incoming shot. The fire decreased in volume as they shot past towers – then it vanished.

"All power to rear deflectors!" Antilles ordered. "Keep an eye out for those fighters! Switching to targeting computer now!"

"I see them!" Klivian snapped. "Coming in at 2-10!"

Tycho closed his eyes for a brief moment. _Been nice knowing you, boys_.

* * *

"Governor?" Tarkin turned to Motti, who was standing next to the chief analyst.

"Governor," said the analyst, "we've examined the starfighter attack pattern – "

"And there's a danger they could destabilize the reactor core," Motti cut in, furious with fear.

"Shall we prepare for evacuation?" the analyst added, sneaking a daring glare at Motti.

"Evacuate?" Tarkin laughed. "In our moment of triumph? I think you overestimate their chances…"

"Would you prefer to _underestimate _their chances?" Motti growled.

Tarkin spared him a cold glare. "Cowardice doesn't suit you, Motti. Neither does it suit the Empire, which will have need of strong men after this day."

Motti snapped his jaw shut and spun back to his console. "Pick off the rest of those fighters," he snarled at the targeting section. "I'm sick of looking at them."

* * *

Wedge Antilles couldn't believe the stupidity of what he was doing. Hurtling so fast down a trench so narrow that a single shiver of his control stick could kill him, with TIE fighters spewing destruction at his defenseless tail, while he did _nothing _but stare at a targeting display and trust the fate of the galaxy to a damned computer –

Klivian's right S-foil blew away under fire from the TIEs behind them.

"Wedge, I'm hit!"

"Pull out, Hobs, you're no more good back there!" Hobbie's limping fighter rocketed upward, leaving just Celchu weaving behind in an effort to confuse the enemy targeting systems. He bought a few more seconds and a lot more meters toward the port before the lasers speared his fighter at last. A terrific explosion burst out behind, taking out one of the oncoming TIEs as well – blast it anyway, where was Fel? The crosshairs of the targeting computer were still so far apart! He wasn't going to make it! And if by some freak chance he did, he'd have to put all his trust and faith in totally impartial targeting computer that couldn't care less if planets got destroyed because its calculations had been off by the tiniest margin -

In that moment, Wedge Antilles realized he couldn't do it.

Not that way.

Part of his brain watched in amazement as another part ordered his arm to reach out and pressed his finger down on the controls. The targeting computer retracted. It was him, the port, the torpedo, and plain old-fashioned instinct – if he could only make it there. Lasers streaked on all sides of his canopy – just a little farther – his astromech droid caught a blast and flared into smoke and sparks with a death screech – almost there… A terrible buzz raced up his spine and he knew he was moments away from blowing apart –

A crazy devil with the voice of a man plummeted sideways into the trench, unleashing volleys of lasers on the TIEs, pulling up a hair shy of the far wall. Startled, the pursuing TIEs swerved, clipped each other, and crashed into the trench. The consequent fireballs punctuated the bombardment that would surely have found Wedge in another second.

"You're clear, Red Leader!" Fel shouted. "Blow this Sithspawn!"

The port, ahead of him, there! Like it was the most natural thing in the world, Wedge paused for the tiniest instant longer and his thumbs slid down firmly on the firing keys.

Two shimmering torpedoes outstripped his ship, racing towards the dead end of the trench, and scented the beckoning heat of the reactor core at just the right moment. Changing course they shot through the port, nothing but air.

"_They're in!" _Wedge roared into the general broadcast channel. _"Go go go!"_

* * *

"_They're in!" _an unknown pilot whooped over the bridge com of the _Chimaera_. _"Go go go!"_

"All ships, move away from the Death Star on least-time course, maximum acceleration!" Thrawn snapped into the fleet com. "Estimate thirty seconds to reactor failure!"

* * *

"Did he just say they've _hit _it?" Bail demanded, coming half out of his seat as Rieekan urged his ships to sprint clear of the behemoth.

"Not now, Senator!"

Bail gaped – down to fifteen seconds – he stole a rapid glance at his scanner and found the _Millennium Falcon_, which had fled the battle at his urging deep below the orbital traffic – thank the Force Leia was out of the way, she was _off _that thing – five seconds - he snapped his gaze back up to the rear viewport –

Space went supernova, brighter white than heaven and deadlier than the tenth hell.

* * *

Grand Admiral Grant sat stunned and half-blind in his command chair. One minute victory's sweet savor as the triumphing Capital Fleet drove the invaders away from Imperial Center into deep space. The next – an incomprehensible catastrophe.

The Death Star was _gone_. And the enemy had reversed course, charging back upon the now-brutally outnumbered scraps of his command, finished with its sham retreat and hungering to mop up the fight. Shouts of panic and demoralization poured in from every channel as Capital Fleet begged him for orders. "Contact the Emperor!" Grant shouted at his com officer. "And get me status reports on the Fleet!"

The holographic images of his surviving commanders sprang up, all of them stammering tidings of devastation – the _Death's Head _had lost her main deflectors – the _Indomitable_'s port broadside had been totaled by the electromagnetic blast, she was surrendering to her opponent – the TIE fighters were deserting to the enemy in droves – "Contact the Emperor!" Grant howled once more –

The stubborn _Imperium_, still transmitting her third refusal to surrender, broke into flames as her defectors failed and the enemy flagship raked lasers down her starboard from bow to stern. A pair of Rebel cruisers shot over her veering hulk on an oblique curve towards Grant's flagship, laying a sequenced assault on the engine bloc before Targeting could reprioritize its fire. The _Chimaera _glided closer, obscenely lazy amidst the expanding hell around them. Grant stared, imagining himself gazing right into Thrawn's eerie red eyes. He deactivated his personal com unit even as the priority signal started to flicker.

Refusing to hear the enemy's demand for surrender would only buy him a minute at most. _"I want a personal line to the Emperor now!" _he bellowed at the com pit.

"I _can't, _sir!" the com officer wailed. "Imperial Palace isn't responding!"

"Sir," another com officer spoke up weakly, "Admiral Thrawn is demanding an immediate unconditional surrender."

Grant ran a shaking hand over his hair and put his cap back in place, drawing a deep breath. "There's _no _answer from Imperial Palace?"

"None, sir," the chief com officer whispered. Beyond the bridge viewport, the _Retribution'_s main beam shattered in a deluge of laser fire, at the apex of a speedy evasive arc – unable to bear the stresses the whole ship split in two. Her attackers had already moved on to hammer her sister ship _Inquisitor_, lamed and bleeding out her will to fight.

He couldn't throw away the lives that still remained under him on a hopeless battle.

Grant drew a deep breath. "In the absence of guidance from the Emperor, inform Admiral Thrawn that Capital Fleet agrees to the surrender. Transmit a general order to strike all drives."

* * *

"Kid!" Han dropped his bowcaster and skidded around the vile remains of the Emperor, dropping to his knees and heaving Vader's inert hulk sideways. Luke, who had inadvisably tried to break his father's fall, wriggled out from beneath the heavy weight, gasping. Han rolled him onto his back and waved a shaking hand in front of his eyes.

"Are you alright? How many fingers?"

Luke batted his hand away. Han grinned. Kid was going to be fine.

"Father," he coughed, turning his head toward Vader.

Han's grin wilted. Maybe he wouldn't be quite so fine after all.

"_Father!" _Luke was on his hands and knees now, shaking Vader's shoulder. The lights of his chest panel flickered like dying glowflies. The hiss of the respirator had slowed to a funereal pace. Would it even stop if the man was dead? Han had no idea. It wasn't like Vader had a pulse they could feel – both his hands were prosthetic, that doctor told them so back at Bast Castle.

Luke spun to Han, tears carving through the grime and sweat on his face. Luke hardly ever cried if he thought Han could see him. "We gotta help him, Han, he's dying!"

Even if he was a pretty fair hand with mechanical repairs, Han doubted he had a shot at fixing Vader's life support system. He doubted _anyone _had a shot. "Look, kid…"

"_Please!"_

Han racked his brains as he rubbed Luke's shoulder, hoping to at least be there if he couldn't do anything else. This felt like their escape from Corellia all over again, when Kenobi'd stayed behind and gotten killed, except even worse because they were watching it happen. "Maybe…maybe you could try to call a medic?" In reality the medics were unlikely to come tearing into the throne room just because a random teenage kid who shouldn't be there had asked real nice, but a light dawned over Luke's despair.

"Dr. Siler!" Luke plunged his hands into the compartments of Vader's belt. "Help me find his comlink!"

* * *

Not even Lando – not even _Threepio_ – could muster an exclamation at the tremendous explosion that illuminated the whole system like a second sun. The blinding brilliance faded into flame and became a cloud of disturbingly beautiful glitter. A moon-sized space station, which simply had to be the biggest object ever constructed by sentient beings, had just gone _poof_, like a ripe dandelion in a tornado.

Leia had to fight the urge to cackle madly at the simile. It wasn't funny. It wasn't anything like funny. Much later Leia learned that just over a million men had been on the Death Star when it exploded, but she didn't need an exact figure to appreciate the enormity of the death toll she'd just witnessed. An inexplicable oppressive terror whelmed her over; she hugged her knees up and dropped her head onto them, wishing everything that had happened would go away and she'd wake up at home on Alderaan. Silence reigned supreme in the cockpit.

Dr. Siler's personal com spat out a jarring chime. All three of them jumped. The doctor clipped it off his belt with surgeon-steady fingers. "Siler."

The voice that Leia knew belonged to Luke Skywalker spilled out of the speaker. "Dr. Siler, you've got to come to Imperial Palace! It's Father, he needs you!"

Siler bolted straight up, his bushy eyebrows bristling. "It'll take me about fifteen minutes to get there," he said.

"_Hurry_!" Luke cried. "Please, he's dying!" A faint sob echoed.

Siler spun to Lando and mouthed _Get going! _

With a muttered oath, Lando gunned the ship back towards Coruscant on a heading for Imperial City. "Where in the building are you?" Siler asked.

"The throne room, at the very top I think," Luke gasped. "You've got to _hurry_ – "

"I'll be there as soon as I can," Siler promised. "Hang on, alright, son?"

"Alright," Luke moaned. Siler cut the call and started punching numbers.

"What the hell?" Lando shouted. "What's going on?"

"A patient needs me back at Imperial Palace."

"_Who?" _

"You don't need to know!"

"I sure as hell do, if you want me taking Bail Organa's daughter back into the Emperor's rat nest when he told us to stay up here!"

Siler, entering the last digits of the contact code the Rebels had transmitted to them, ignored him. So did Leia. Unlike Lando, she'd already realized who they were racing to save.

Vader? Dying? It seemed completely impossible. But so had the notion of an exploding space station just a moment ago, and so had the thought of the Imperial Navy fighting itself.

Her father – her _real _father, Leia corrected venomously – answered a moment later. "Yes?"

"Senator Organa, this is Doctor Siler aboard the _Millennium Falcon_. I have urgent business at Imperial Palace."

"Then stop and bring Leia here," Bail snapped. "I don't want her taken to the surface, it's too dangerous – "

"She needs to come with me," Siler interposed. "She's an immediate family member of a patient in critical condition."

Leia held her breath, waiting, hoping to hear her father dismiss this assertion and shake away the awful weight of what Vader and Miyr had said.

"Alright," Bail Organa said. "I'll meet you down there."

"Bring a medical team while you're at it," Siler snapped. He cut the call and glared at Lando, who was simmering with resentment over the controls. "Is that really the fastest you can fly, Calrissian?"

* * *

As the minutes passed, Luke kept trying to rouse Vader. Han began to be convinced the man was dead, but then a faint moan echoed out of the vocabulator and one great arm shifted a smidgen.

"Father!" The aching hope that filled Luke's voice sounded as though he knew the end was coming no matter what he did, but wouldn't give up a wild desire to fight it away. Han decided to leave them to talk alone while Vader was still conscious; it might not last long.

Slipping backwards, he wandered over to the human Jedi collapsed on the stairs, who'd also begun to stir. Han clumsily patted his cheeks to help revive him, then hoisted him up and leaned him against a post of the railing. The Jedi stared at the ceiling, breathing in shallow gasps. Gently Han drew his arm away from the gruesome wound that reached from his left hip all the way past his knee.

"That's gotta hurt," he said, before noticing the Jedi was also missing his left hand and wincing in extra sympathy.

The Jedi licked his split lower lip and rasped, "Yes."

"I'm Han Solo," Han said, hoping a little conversation might distract him from all the pain until the medic got here.

"Ferus Olin," groaned the other. "Your reputation precedes you."

"It tends to do that," Han said. "Usually gets me shot at."

"I noticed," Olin grunted.

* * *

Vader felt he was drifting amidst thin, airy clouds. The world seemed much brighter and dizzier; all he could make out above him was Luke's face, even more frightened than before. Dreamily he forced a hand to pick itself up a bit and stroke Luke's lower arm. He couldn't speak anymore; the respirator wasn't producing enough oxygen for that. _Don't be afraid for me_, he thought at the boy. He'd done what he had to, the last thing he could; a peaceful death in his son's presence was more than he could rightfully have expected.

"Father," Luke sniffed. "I'm sorry I left Bast Castle."

_Oh, my son, it doesn't matter. You're alive…_

"I tried to keep them from taking Sara and Sandra," Luke kept going, oblivious to the faint flicker of thought, "but I couldn't so I chased after them – but then we got separated on Corellia – "

He started to cry in earnest as Vader kept caressing his arm, feeling a distant pang of guilt through the haze. Sara and Sandra. He had not found them. He would have to trust the search entirely to Baranne now. If only he could have known where they were, what had happened to them…at least he knew that Leia was aboard the Death Star. Though the thought of his daughter in Tarkin's cruel clutches sickened him, she would be safe from the raging space battle.

Mercifully, Darth Vader had been unconscious when the Death Star's holographic image exploded on the far side of the projection.

"But Master Yoda and I found them again," Luke said, rubbing back his tears. "They're safe now, Father – they're here on Coruscant, on our ship in the industrial district, Lando Calrissian is watching them. He's my friend of mine, I _promise_ he won't let them get hurt."

Vader's grip tightened as much as it could on Luke's arm. "Safe," he croaked.

Luke nodded. "And Agent Baranne was heading that way, I saw him when I was sneaking back into the palace, so maybe he's even found them all now."

With a deep, fulfilled sigh, Vader's hand sank back down, his head lolling aside. Safe. _Safe_…

_The world was dissolving at the edges. The borders of his mind were fragmenting, bleeding out his thoughts which mingled into the thickening flow. At the same time the power that had always dwelt at his heart became brighter at the bright places, darker at the dark places, sharpening … he let himself slip deeper in, mesmerized by the blazing realness and tangibility of it … he wanted nothing but to merge with it, submit to it, become it … except for that awful black, it sucked at him - like crude oil, searing cold … but he could stay away from that, surely … _

_ANAKIN._

_A name? Whose name? Whose voice calling it?_

_NOT YET, ANAKIN._

_The voice was strong, coherent, full of individuality. Halfway enmeshed in the current, he hesitated and found it possible to resist the dissolution._

_THEY NEED YOU, ANAKIN._

_Anakin?_

_A face burst out of the current, pulling tendrils to itself until a man's form appeared – solemn, garbed in a plain brown robe._

_Obi-Wan! _

_He thought the name without meaning to and instantly felt himself torn back out of the flowing Force. It hurt. He tried to push the memories back in, and let himself slip away – _

_NO, ANAKIN._

_I'm Anakin, he realized. Or – I was._

_YOU WILL BE, _Obi-Wan responded. _STAY AWAKE._

_But he was tired … so tired. He'd done what he had to. There was nothing left for him in life but humiliation. It would be better this way … it would be better for his children this way…the black sucked him down and in and apart, ravenous, cold, void like vacuum ... but maybe it wasn't so bad once you got used to it...and the bright parts burned anyway...  
_

_STAY AWAKE, ANAKIN._

_Can't…The bright wouldn't let go of him, wouldn't stop enveloping him, it was hot, hot like Mustafar and he hated it and he wanted it...but too hot, too hard...can't...  
_

_AWAKE. STAY AWAKE. STAY AW –_

" – ake, Father, _please_, Dr. Siler is here!"

Dizzily Vader summoned his final teaspoons of strength and forced his eyes open once more, trying to make sense of the spasmodic flashes of the mask's viewscreen. A medical capsule had arrived on the edge of his vision. Luke's terrified expression dove out of his field of vision and Dr. Siler's worried scowl descended from above as a team of medics hoisted his broken body into the capsule.

"Stay awake a moment longer, my lord," his voice said from far, far away. "Someone needs to talk to you."

A pale young face framed with brunette braids emerged hesitantly from the side, eyes wide and liquid staring at his mask.

Leia!

He spent his second-to-last bit of energy to brush her hand and saved the last bit to whisper, "Sorry…love you."

Then black welled over him and he knew no more.

* * *

tbc


	61. Fighting Chance

CHAPTER 61

"Fighting Chance"

* * *

The Emperor's throne room was a leftover war zone.

Leia'd known something must be wrong when the _Falcon_ touched down on the Emperor's private landing pad without anyone so much as commenting, but she hadn't thought it would be _this _wrong. You only had to look at this room to know the Emperor was dead. So were quite a lot of Imperial bodyguards and Wookiees. Siler shouted at one of the medics to stop and see to the only Wookiee who was still alive, huddled on the floor and whining with pain. He himself led the rest of the _Chimaera'_s emergency medical detachment up the battle-bruised stairs to the dais. Thrawn and the Rebels had both sent medical crews after the _Falcon_, but the Rebels were still a few minutes behind them.

At the top hunkered two humans. Leia blinked hard – Han Solo! And next to him, looking even worse than when she'd last seen him on the _Executor_, leaned Master Olin, too injured to recognize her.

"Princess?" Solo said quizzically. "Dr. Siler! They're up there on the left, you better hurry."

Siler darted up, towing Leia behind him; another medic split away to see to Ferus.

"And there's another Jedi over there," Han's voice continued behind her, "I think he's pretty beat up too…"

Then she stopped hearing him at all. In front of her, sprawled limp on the floor beside the contorted corpse of Emperor Palpatine, lay the invincible Darth Vader. Luke Skywalker was leaning over him, shaking his shoulder, crying to him that help had come. The medics dashed past her, and Leia stood rooted to the spot while they loaded Vader into the special capsule that had been sent from the _Chimaera_. Luke hovered around the edges of the bustle, angrily drying his face with his filthy sleeve. Emerging from the knot of activity, Dr. Siler seized Leia by the hand again.

"He is your father," he announced in low tones, "and he is dying. This may be your only chance to talk to him."

Leia followed him over to the capsule and peered over its edge. Vader lay like a broken action figure inside, covered in scorch marks. The powerful hiss of his respirator had sunk to a fading gasp. He turned his masked head and stared at her. She froze as his hand trembled high enough to brush hers.

"Sorry," he whispered. "Love you."

Leia's throat had gotten too tight for words to get out. His hand slid back down. She backed away as the medics rushed the capsule down the stairs. Dr Siler was on the com again, talking to the director of a surgical reconstruction center. Leia's eyes followed his sprinting figure down the stairs, towards the side door –

"Leia!"

Her gaze whipped around to face the main entrance, and then went blurry as she saw Bail Organa racing towards her, bounding over the corpses of guards and Wookiees. Half-blind with surging tears she sped down the stairs and leapt off the last two into his waiting arms. The blaster in his hand clattered onto the marble floor as he crushed her against his chest.

"Daddy," she sobbed, "oh, Daddy…"

"I'm here now, Princess," he whispered in her ear, running a fierce hand into her hair. "It's over."

Gradually the noise around them made Leia look up over her father's shoulder. The Rebel medical team had arrived and started sifting through the piled bodies of the guards and Wookiees, checking for any signs of life. Bail firmly turned around, blocking her view.

"You don't need to see any more of that, Princess." He set her down, tucked her under his arm and started towards the side door through which Dr. Siler had brought her earlier. Before he could open it again, someone on the other side did – a tall, blue-skinned, red-eyed admiral flanked by several other officers and a squad of crack stormtroopers.

"Senator Organa," he said with a trim nod. "I see that you've been reunited with your daughter. Are you well, Princess?"

Leia stared at him. Courtesy was the last thing on her mind and she didn't understand how anybody else could still be worried about it after everything that had happened tonight.

"Leia, this is Admiral Thrawn," her father said. "He coordinated our attack on the Death Star."

"Among other things," the admiral agreed. "What is the situation here, Senator?" He scanned the devastated throne room, his eyes flicking up to the dais where not much beyond bustling medics could be seen.

"I don't know, exactly," her father answered. "Vader is alive. I haven't heard about the Emperor."

"I saw him up there," Leia cut in, staring at the floor. "He's dead."

Thrawn and her father both drew deep, sharp sighs. "What other survivors?" Thrawn persisted, putting his blaster back in its holster.

Bail frowned up at the dais. The medics were still fussing in several different areas. "I don't know. No one should have been here beyond Vader and the Wookiee strike team. I know one of the latter is still alive – "

"Luke is here," Leia told them. "And Han Solo and Master Olin."

Bail jerked, looking first at her and then back up the stairs.

"Who are they?" one of the other Imperial officers demanded.

"Two boys and a Jedi," Thrawn told him.

"What the stars is a Jedi doing _here_?" the officer snapped. Bail found himself wondering the same thing.

"Jedi Olin was recently taken prisoner and agreed to assist Lord Vader's effort to eliminate the Emperor," Thrawn said, leading the way up the stairs with an expression of the utmost interest.

"In exchange for his own life, I suppose?" Bail barked angrily as he and Leia followed behind.

"In exchange for hers, Senator," Ferus Olin rasped down to them, nodding at Leia. The medics had put his maimed arm in a bandage capsule and dosed him with a strong cocktail of painkiller and stim; he was sitting up while they performed a scan to check for internal injuries. Bail wanted to rub his eyes – a wounded Jedi being fussed over by Imperial naval medics. Astounding. "I'm sorry. I didn't protect her as I should have."

"She's safe, that's all that matters," Bail told him. "Will you be alright, Jedi Olin?"

He blinked rapidly and winced. "Eventually, I'm sure." He looked over his shoulder. "I don't know whether Master Yoda…"

"_Yoda_?" Leia was worried for a moment her father might topple over backward and down the stairs. "Do you mean to say he's here as well?"

"Yeah," Han Solo said, limping up with his arm over the shoulders of a shaken and silent Luke. He pointed at a knot of medics on the far side of the dais, scurrying in a gigantic pile of fabric. "He's over there. He got hit pretty hard. I dunno if – "

He caught himself and didn't finish the sentence. Instead he glanced at Luke and patted his shoulder clumsily. "I mean, I'm sure he's gonna be alright and everything…"

"What are you boys _doing _here?" Bail demanded. "You could have been killed! And how did you even wind up on Coruscant?"

"Long story," Han said with a small crooked grin. "What are _you_ all doing here?"

Bail shook his head. "Longer story."

Han finally noticed Thrawn, who'd been listening to the conversation with great interest. "Um…hey. Han Solo." He stuck his free hand out after a moment's hesitation; Thrawn shook it with the same gravity as if it had belonged to a dignitary.

"Admiral Thrawn, pleased to make your acquaintance. And this" – he focused his gaze on Luke – "must be Luke Skywalker. Fascinating."

Luke nodded wearily. "Do you know where they took my father?" he asked.

"I'm told that Lord Vader is being rushed to the Emperor Palpatine Surgical Reconstruction Center," Thrawn answered. A chorus of incredulous squeaks erupted from the assemblage of Imperial officers; even the stormtroopers started as they put the two statements together and made the calculations. Word of the Emperor's press conference revelation clearly had not spread far beyond Coruscant yet. Ferus Olin twisted around to face them, clutching his wounded arm like it was his anchor to reality.

"Yoda told me you were the son of Anakin Skywalker," he murmured at Luke.

"Well, yeah," Luke said, a note of bewilderment making its way through the exhaustion and dread. "They're the same person, you know."

"No," Ferus said tightly. "I didn't."

Luke stared at him for another moment before dismissing the comment as something he couldn't spare energy on. "Where's the center?" he asked Thrawn. "Please, I've got to go there!"

"EmpPalSuRecon is located within Lord Vader's castle," one of the medics examining Olin said. "Just above the private levels."

Bail beckoned to Luke. "Boys, why don't we all go over to the castle and wait in the private levels? We'll be nearby and the surgeons and Dr. Siler can contact us immediately with any updates. You'll be able to rest."

"We should go tell Lando," Leia said, pointing at the side door. "He's still waiting on the _Falcon_ out that way."

"Lando?" Luke asked, and Han cried, "The _Falcon_?"

"I suggest we all go back to the _Falcon_ and take it to Lord Vader's castle," Bail proposed quickly.

"Deal," said Han.

"Excuse me, Senator, Admiral, but we're removing the remains now."

Everybody split apart, clearing the route to the stairs. Thrawn solemnly removed his cap as a hoverstretcher passed. There was no sheet to cover the corpse of the first and last Galactic Emperor; the medics had drawn the hood down over his face and done their best to arrange his robes in such a way as to conceal the fact that the body had been cut completely in two.

They hadn't entirely succeeded. Bail yanked Leia's face against his chest, watching in disapproval as Luke's eyes followed the makeshift bier unimpeded. A dead sort of relief was his only expression. The boy had grown up too fast.

* * *

Han, having been living there for the past couple days, knew the passcodes to let them into Vader's quarters. The silence and cool imperturbability of the room felt almost itchy after all the excitement.

"Nice place," Lando Calrissian muttered, nudging his boot toe over the marble inlay. Luke sank onto the couch and curled against the armrest, staring into the distance. Artoo scooted up next to him, humming affectionately as Luke ran a tired hand over his dome. Not knowing what else to do, the rest of them pulled up seats on the remaining chairs and the floor. Han dropped onto the floor as near Luke as he could get with Artoo in the way and kept shooting anxious glances up at him.

The subsequent silence shattered as a buzz sang out. Luke jerked upright and whipped out the comlink he'd taken from Vader. "Yes?"

Dr. Siler had called the comlink about ten minutes ago to tell them that Vader was still stable and entering emergency surgery that might last for hours. If it was him again, the news couldn't be good.

"Uh, hi, who's this?"

"Agent Baranne," said a displeased voice on the other end. "To whom am I speaking?"

"This is Luke," Luke said, impressed enough by the awkwardness to fidget and start picking at the sofa fabric. "Luke Skywalker."

Dead silence stretched on the other end for a great many seconds.

"Figures," Agent Baranne growled at length. "Can I please speak with Lord Vader?" The sarcasm of his inflection was less subtle than it could have been.

"No," Luke croaked. "He's…he's not here."

"Where _is _he?"

"What do you need?"

"I need to deliver something to his quarters and update him on an investigation," Baranne revealed after a grudging pause. "But if – "

"Just as second," Luke said. "I'll let you inside."

The com clicked dead. Silence had never sounded so irritated.

"I got it." Han trotted over to the door, keyed it open –

"Das Luke, das Luke!"

Two short streaks burst in around Han's legs, nearly knocking him over in their desperation to get to Luke, who mustered a sort-of smile as he got off the sofa and scooped them up. "Hi, Sara, hi Sandra."

"Das Kwishy!" one of them squealed, pointing at Lando. "Is you better now?"

Lando, his leg slumbering in a cocktail of painkillers and bacta wrap, grunted something and cast a foul glare in Artoo's direction.

"An' das _Han_," scowled the other girl. "He _still _thinks too loud."

A medium-sized, gray-eyed, rather spent-looking man stalked in behind them, eyebrows knit in a scowl. "How did you get in here?" he demanded. "And what are you doing with Lord Vader's com?"

He cast a glance around, raising an eyebrow as he passed over Leia and Lando and stopping entirely on Bail. "Senator Organa," he said. "Most unexpected. Maybe you can tell me what the hell is going on. For example, why I can't raise the _Executor_? Or Imperial Palace? Or contact Lord Vader at all? Or, in fact, even raise the damn planetary information network?"

"The _Executor _was destroyed with all hands on board," Bail answered. "Imperial Palace is under occupation. Lord Vader is in critical condition and undergoing surgery as we speak. And taking a wild stab at it, I'd imagine at least a third of the satellite web has been blasted away. Now perhaps _you _can tell _me _who those girls are."

"My little sisters," Luke said.

The room went dead silent. Agent Baranne's eyebrows ticked a fraction upward. The Senator, much more astonished, stared first at Luke, then at the girls, and finally at the blasé expressions being sported by Lando, Han, and even Leia. Artoo twittered in bemusement.

"I think," Bail said, "it's time for explanations."

* * *

It took a couple of hours to hear everyone's side of the story. Han and Luke listened wide-eyed to the description of the terrific space battle. Sara and Sandra kept asking for their Daddy and for Miyr; Leia wilted with fresh misery, realizing that Miyr had to have been aboard the _Executor _when it blew. She kept the knowledge to herself; there'd be time to break it to Luke later, when they knew whether Vader would make it or not. Quietly she listened as the adults distracted the toddlers from the subject of their guardians and Han and Luke told their side of the story. Han even wrung out a couple of laughs with his (most likely exaggerated) description of his tenure playing the part of Vader's son. Leia forced herself to join in, but didn't think it was funny.

Han had only been pretending. She, on the other hand, really _was _his daughter. Maybe. How she wanted to be alone with her father and ask him…

Luke gave his side of it swiftly and sadly, telling them how Master Yoda and he had arrived back on Coruscant. When he got to the part about the battle in the throne room he choked up and Han had to take it over as best he could.

Agent Baranne, having pumped present company for all the information they were ready to give him, left to do further investigating, not without announcing that he'd be assigning every stormtrooper left in the castle to make sure Luke and the twins stayed put. Sara and Sandra, having mostly accepted the explanation that their daddy was sick and had to stay with the doctors for awhile, fell asleep – Sandra between Luke and Leia, Sara on Bail's lap. Lando wandered away to a back room to get some shuteye himself; they had forgotten, but it was almost seven in the morning now and no one had gotten any sleep. Han dropped off in spite of himself right there on the floor, snoring faintly. Leia blinked under Bail's arm.

Luke kept staring and checking his chrono every few minutes.

"You need to sleep, Luke," Bail said. "Go ahead. I'll wake you up if they call again."

"I can't," Luke said dully. He looked terrible.

"Alright." Bail shifted a little so as to better face the boy. "Do you want to talk about anything?"

"No," Luke mumbled.

"Yes," Leia said bitterly.

"What is it, Princess?"

She stared at her fingers, feeling sick. "Vader and Dr. Siler said something," she heard herself say. "They said…they said my real father is…Vader."

Luke was shaken out of his personal misery in a heartbeat. Leia glanced sideways and met his sudden sharp gaze for a moment before resuming contemplation of her knuckles. "That isn't true, is it?" she asked.

Her father sighed. "Yes. It is, Leia."

"It is?" Luke asked shakily. "But – but how do you know?"

Bail smiled sadly at him over Leia's head. "I was there when you two were born," he said. "Your mother was a colleague of mine in the Senate, and a good friend. She died just minutes after you were both born. She was heartbroken over what had happened to your father – and to the galaxy. Master Yoda and Master Kenobi thought that it would be best to hide both of you in separate places so as to keep the Emperor from realizing that Vader's children had survived. My wife and I" – he squeezed Leia's shoulders – "had always longed to have a little girl. We offered to adopt Leia. Master Kenobi took you, Luke, to your uncle and aunt on Tatooine. I suppose you both know what happened after that."

"Why didn't you _tell_ me?" Leia wanted desperately to be angry. To her chagrin she found herself bursting into tears instead, burying her face in her father's shirt. Or could she even call him that name anymore?

"Your mother and I didn't think that was knowledge that you should have to bear so young," Bail murmured, rubbing her hair.

"He locked me up," Leia sobbed. "And he _used _me – to make you and Master Olin do what he wanted – he said he'd hurt me if – if – "

"He wouldn't have hurt you," Luke mumbled.

Leia wrested out from under Bail's arm. "What do _you_ know? He's killed children! Don't you know that? He's killed _babies_! He _deserves _to die – "

"Leia," Bail said sharply. She fell silent, aching with barely-contained anger. Luke's expression had twisted with even worse misery than before. A niggle of guilt sprang to life in her stomach.

"You've got another father," he said finally, turning back to stare at the comlink. "I don't."

Leia ducked back under Bail's arm, hating Vader even more now that she felt guilty for yelling at Luke when he was so upset.

"He loves us, you know," Luke said. "He plays with Sara and Sandra and tells them stories. He lets me help him fix things. He even got Han and me simulators back at Bast Castle. So we could learn how to fly."

"How can he be both those things?" Leia's anger had gone, leaving her feeling bleak and bewildered. "How can he be so good sometimes and so bad the rest of the time?"

"He can't," Bail said. "Not for very long. He has a choice to make."

"If he gets a chance," Luke mumbled.

The minutes wore silently on. Leia drifted away into troubled dreams. Finally Luke's exhaustion became too much for him and he followed her into a deep slumber.

* * *

tbc


	62. A Question of Jurisdiction

CHAPTER 62

"A Question of Jurisdiction"

* * *

"Damn," Wedge Antilles said fervently.

The surviving Rogues had returned after a fair amount of confusion and celebration to _Home One_. Klivian got there last; and to everyone's astonishment he had been towing a passenger. Tycho Celchu had managed to eject at the last moment. Klivian, who'd pulled out earlier, had spotted him and gone in to attempt a retrieval, knowing that Imperial TIE pilot flight suits could be magnetically locked to ship hulls in an emergency. So Tycho was alive, although the shrieking speed of their race away from the Death Star had sent him to the medbay for the next couple of days. The rest of them were in the mess hunkered around the holovid and watching the galaxy evolve.

"What's on now?" The stern-faced Soontir Fel came up behind the knot of riveted pilots. He'd ducked out awhile ago to check on Celchu's progress.

"There's supposed to be an address to the Senate in a few minutes," Wedge Antilles said. Between his fingers he absently rubbed the rim of the medal General Rieekan had awarded him in a ship-wide ceremony a couple hours ago. Exact copies hung on brown shimmersilk ribbon from Fel and Klivian's necks, and by now a fourth one would have made its way to Tycho's bedside. "Thrawn and Mothma, I think."

"I'd have thought Bail Organa would be a more logical choice to speak to the Senate," Fel said mildly, sipping a mug of caf as he leaned against Janson's seat.

"He seems to be out of the loop right now," Klivian shrugged. "I heard he's planetside though. Something to do with the Emperor, you think?"

Rumors were flying like blasterfire across the Holonet about the fate of the Emperor. Some of them claimed he was dead; others asserted that Thrawn had arrested him and Vader. All anyone seemed to know for sure was that an epic battle had gone down at Imperial Palace. It was now twenty hours after Admiral Grant's surrender and solid facts about recent events were just starting to appear. The _Executor_ had been destroyed with all hands aboard; the Imperial Admiralty's first act after surrendering to the ground forces had been to release its personnel roster to the news media. What with the millions more who'd been killed in the following engagement, there was no hope of sending proper notifications to every family faster than the information could leak to the Holonet. The regional governors and sector admirals located close to the Core had begun demanding to know who was in charge; one or two had already announced their official backing of Thrawn and his coup. Holos from across Coruscant showed spontaneous revolts. A statue of the Emperor had been torn down in the North Aldray district, though no one was brave enough yet to attack the one on the external grounds of Imperial Palace. The containment gates of the Southern Underground had been breached from within…

The breathless news correspondent fell silent and so did the pilots as the image transitioned to a view of the Senate. A broad pan of the chamber demonstrated that the news galleries were packed. Most of the delegates were present, except for those who'd been out of system and those who'd fled when the fighting erupted. Quickly the camera panned in to the vacant Alderaanian box; the news anchors had been especially inquisitive about Bail Organa's whereabouts.

The view nipped back out as Admiral Thrawn appeared on the central podium. But he was standing to the side while a willowy redheaded woman in flowing white claimed the chief position. A great rumble roared around the chamber as the erstwhile Senator for Chandrila and exiled leader of the Rebel Alliance bowed her head briefly before beginning.

"Senators," she said. "Great deeds have been achieved today. My ally, Admiral Mitth'raw'nuruodo, will speak to you on that subject. First let us pause in silent recognition of the millions of beings who have lost their lives today."

The chamber lapsed into reluctant silence for a minute or two, less out of respect for the dead than in anticipation of what the returned outlaw would say next.

Mon Mothma lifted her head, surveyed the chamber one more time, drawing a great bracing breath. "Of particular significance," she said, her forehead drawn smooth in bland amazement at her own words, "is the death of Emperor Palpatine, which occurred this morning at – "

The exact time and place of the Emperor's death were never heard, drowned in the roar that flooded the chamber. Soontir Fel blew out a hiss through his teeth. Klivian pumped a fist. Wedge leaned forward, hands steepled over his mouth. No one was really surprised by this news, but hearing the thing said so plainly…

When the frenzied shouts became too much, Mothma retrieved the ceremonial gavel that Palpatine had never used from its slot inside the podium and pounded it for silence. A full minute later, when relative calm had obtained, she said, "Admiral Thrawn will provide you with further details."

The victorious admiral wasted no words on introductions. "When a government and its ruler cease to represent the desires or respect the rights of its citizens, it is the duty of those citizens to remove them from power. This action has been taken not by myself, but by millions of Imperial citizens representing many perspectives. Let this be noted as the day on which those differences were set aside in the pursuit of a higher aim. Great sacrifices were made – by Imperial officers who risked charges of treason and by members of the Rebel Alliance who put by their hostilities and took upon themselves the greatest dangers."

His penetrating red gaze circled the chamber, seeming to meet the eyes of every delegate and every viewer across the galaxy. "In honor of these actions, I exhort you to join with us in the formation of a government acceptable to us all. It will no longer be the Galactic Empire we knew. Neither will it be a regression to the corruption and bloated ineptitude of the old Republic. Instead my allies and I seek to form a galactic alliance combining the most worthy elements of each. The hour is ripe for innovation."

He paused. "The Rebel Alliance and its members have already demonstrated their commitment to this goal by coming alongside their former enemies in battle. As spokesman for the Imperial Armed Forces, I wish to proffer a commensurate token of good faith in return. As of this moment, full amnesty is granted to all members of the Rebel Alliance and to all surviving members of the Jedi Order."

Pandemonium erupted across the known galaxy. Hoots and shouts broke in a tidal wave across the mess of _Home One_. Wedge Antilles crossed his arms behind his head and twisted sideways to grin at the rest of them. "This is starting to get good, boys."

"Interesting, at least," said Fel.

"I've got fifty credits," Janson cut in, "that say the Emperor's statue at the Palace will last one hour."

"You're on, Janson!"

* * *

"…Luke? Wake up, Luke. Dr. Siler is here."

Rudely shaken out of the utmost depths of his REM cycle, Luke picked his head up off the arm of the sofa and found he hadn't budged in his sleep. He was still hunched sideways over the sofa arm with his legs tucked in tight. A nasty ache permeated his body, probably from sleeping funny. Next to him Leia – his _sister_, he reminded himself – was sitting up, and Han had perched on the armrest next to his head in case moral support was needed. Senator Organa was standing over him, handing him a glass of water. And right in front of him, Dr. Siler had pulled up a chair and was leaning over his knees. He looked exhausted. Luke checked his chrono; nearly midnight. He'd been asleep for almost eighteen hours. He thought he could probably do with eighteen more.

"Is my father alright?" he croaked.

"Your father is a very resilient human being," Siler said through a drained, thin smile. "He's alive and he's stable."

A terrible burden lifted free of Luke's chest, letting tears leak out the corners of his eyes. "So he's going to be okay?" It seemed too much to hope.

"He's going to live," Siler said. "But you have to realize that after the amount of damage your father has sustained, there's only so much that the best healers can do. I'm still confirming it, but I don't think he'll ever recover to the point of being able to sustain extensive prosthetic and life support equipment."

"What does that mean?" Luke asked shakily. "You mean the armor and all won't work anymore? But why?"

"Your father suffered severe damage at the connection points of the old life support apparatuses and prosthetics," Siler said. "Now it won't be too hard to replace his limbs; we'll have to amputate a little further to create clean connection points but it's manageable. The problem is his breathing system. I suppose the simplest way to say it is that thanks to the new burn damage from the electrocution, your father doesn't have enough of his own respiratory organs remaining to connect them to artificial systems as I did before. My only alternative is to replace those systems entirely."

Luke felt sort of sick. Han put a friendly hand on his shoulder, which made him feel a bit better. "But you can do that, right?" Han asked for him.

"As a matter of fact," Siler said, "as long as a complete replacement is necessary, I can transplant an entire organic respiratory system."

"You mean he won't need the armor or a suit or any of that at all?" Something like excitement had crept into Luke's voice. "Why couldn't you do that before?"

"I could have done it before," Siler said heavily. "The catch is that it's an extremely delicate solution. The operation itself will take a great toll on him. It'll also permanently reduce his aerobic function."

"What will that look like?" Bail Organa asked from the side.

"His physical strength will be greatly decreased," Siler said. "Even if the transplants are successful, they will never be able to function at the same capacity. The artificial respiratory system enabled your father to retain an active lifestyle, which was why he and the Emperor chose that route when the original damage was sustained. If I give him a fully organic system, he'll be able to live normally again, but he'll lose the ability to be very active. No running. No starfighter piloting. And for Force's sake no lightsaber dueling."

"What if…what if he didn't want that?" Luke whispered. He couldn't imagine what his father would do if he couldn't fly.

"I already discussed the options with him," Siler said quietly. "That is what he wants. He told me that he wants to see his children with his own eyes."

Leia shifted on the sofa; Bail sat down beside her, patting her back. Luke stared at the blurring carpet. "Can I go see him?" he mumbled.

Dr. Siler hesitated. Then he sighed. "I suppose you can, for a little while."

"And Sara and Sandra? Can they come?"

"No. They'd only be frightened. We've spent the last seventeen hours removing the damaged prosthetic equipment and hooking him up to extraneous life support. It doesn't look very pretty right now. It won't for awhile. I'm not sure your father would even want you to see him at the moment."

"I've got to," Luke said fiercely. He disentangled his legs and tried to get up from the sofa, but the dull ache in his body abruptly became stabbing pain. He gasped in surprise and fell back, shaking all over.

Han lurched. "Luke! What's wrong?"

Siler got up and leaned over him, pressing a hand to his forehead. "Feverish," he snarled.

"Guess it hurt worse than I thought," Luke mumbled.

"What did?" Bail demanded.

"He got electrocuted by the Emperor," Han spoke up sheepishly.

"_Electrocuted_?" Siler was apoplectic. "You're just mentioning that little fact to a medic _now_?"

"I kinda forgot about it," Luke mumbled.

"I have a _Jedi Master _in my medbay undergoing treatment for severe electrocution and you just _forgot_ about it?" Siler raved. "Oh, you're your father's son alright, stang it anyway. Solo, make yourself useful and call the medstation. I'm going to need morphine and a hoverstretcher."

"I can walk there," Luke insisted. "I've got to see my father – "

"You can see your father after you've had twelve hours of calcium replenishment treatments and another twelve of bacta immersion," Siler retorted. "He won't thank me for letting you make hospital visits when you should be a patient."

"That reminds me," Han said, sticking out his foot. "I think I hurt my ankle when we jumped off the balcony." He pulled up his trouser. Siler heaved an irate sigh at the swollen, reddish ankle that came to light.

"Sit down," Bail groaned. "I'll go get the stretchers and follow you to the medbay. Leia, will you be alright waiting here? Lando Calrissian will be around if you need something."

"I'll be okay."

"Speaking of Lando," Han added, "he's got a blaster shot in his leg you might want to look at…"

Siler massaged his temples. "I'm going to need another bottle of stim pills," he muttered.

* * *

Luke, after a series of weakening protests, had acquiesced to the inevitable and was now squirreled away in one of Siler's special treatment rooms undergoing the same repair regimen that Master Yoda had just finished. The wee Jedi Master greeted Organa for a few moments in his recovery room. He'd begun to sound chipper again. Bail glanced in on Olin and found the Jedi asleep. Elsewhere in the wing Han had been given a heavy sleep aid and put to bed with his head in a neural regenerator to repair a concussion that Siler had discovered while mending the hairline fracture in his ankle.

So there were no excuses for Bail to put off this visit any longer.

He drew a deep breath, checked the seals of the borrowed hermetic suit, and went through the cycled entrance to the sterile surgical recovery room.

The broken, entubed hulk before his eyes couldn't have looked less terrifying or more horrifying. Only one prosthetic hand remained attached; his legs and left arm had been removed to allow for amputations, refitting, and eventual replacement. The mask and armor had gone, leaving pasty skin and terrible scars bare under the dimmed light. Tubes penetrated a great many places, particularly in his disfigured chest, where almost a dozen of them passed through concealing bandaging and connected to an external respirator. Bail circled slowly around the side of the bed, and studied the monitors for a moment before looking down.

The keen blue eyes that had belonged to Anakin Skywalker years ago stared up at him out of a ravaged face that hadn't.

"Organa," he whispered. It was his own voice; the vocabulator of the mask and its impressive bass were gone. "What are you doing here?"

Bail clasped his hands behind his back. "I thought you should know that your children are safe. Leia and your younger daughters are here in the castle, up in your quarters. Agent Baranne brought Sara and Sandra back early this morning. Luke's here in the medbay. He'll be alright – he needed some treatments for the electrocution he sustained, but there's no lasting harm done."

"Good," the man breathed, blinking up at the ceiling.

"I also thought you should know what happened to Padmé."

The monitor diagnostics skyrocketed dangerously. "I didn't kill her," he rasped after a long silence. "I couldn't have…Luke…"

"You didn't," Bail replied. "I'd taken Master Yoda away from Coruscant and planned to rendezvous with Master Kenobi at a small outpost on Polis Massa. When he brought Padmé…she wasn't doing well."

The memory of her, broken-spirited and fading and in pain, made his throat go thick. He clenched his hands more tightly. His voice mustn't waver. This was important.

"The damage to her larynx shouldn't have been fatal, but the medical techs told us they were losing her quickly," Bail continued quietly. "I think going into premature labor was simply one shock too many. Obi-Wan stayed beside her for the delivery. Luke was born first, then Leia. She died about ten minutes after Leia was born."

He stopped to clear his throat. The story was almost over and then he could leave. "I didn't hear them myself, but Obi-Wan told me that her last words were of you."

The diagnostic readout gave a sharp spasm. "What of me?" he whispered.

He met the agonized blue eyes, knowing that the chief pain they felt wasn't physical. "That she knew there was still good in you."

He closed his eyes. "Then I betrayed her again," he wheezed. "There is none."

"After what Luke has told me," Bail said, "I beg to differ." He stood silently for a few more minutes before deciding to add, "Breha and I have tried to raise Leia as best we knew. What I have done is in memory to my friend and your wife. That's all I have to say."

He turned quick and singleminded towards the door.

"Take care of her," Vader whispered.

He stopped, looked back.

"Of all of them," Vader labored on. "I cannot."

It wasn't an order, but a plea. Bail didn't hesitate to nod. "Of course I will."

"Sara…Sandra…they're hers too," he added.

Bail actually cracked a grin. "Yes. I noticed. They look like Leia's clones, you see."

The extreme corners of Vader's mouth tilted upward for a brief moment.

* * *

"I didn't believe it was possible," Mothma admitted as they watched the cityscape blaze with sunset. The balcony of Bail's Coruscant apartment afforded an excellent view. "To think it's only been five days!"

"Rather long days," Thrawn commented, leaning back in his chair and sipping at a glass of water. The eccentric admiral, when offered an Alderaanian vintage by Bail, had avowed straight water to be the finest spirit in the galaxy. Bail suspected the Chiss merely wanted to keep his wits about him, not that he didn't have wits to spare.

It had been five and a half days since the cataclysm that had crumbled the Empire and was still rocking the galaxy. The Senate had dissolved in face of the upheavals that had now spread beyond Coruscant and into the major systems. A provisional committee, consisting of a diverse selection of leaders – Imperial and Rebel, military and political – had formed to oversee immediate needs and was sending out requests to all sectors to provide suitable delegates for a constitutional convention while also attempting to reign in the Imperial holdouts with a minimum of chaos. Even such a genius as Admiral Thrawn needed all the help he could get.

Mothma, it had been agreed, was too polarizing a figure to be of much practical use except as a representative for the Rebellion. Thrawn, having orchestrated the coup that saw millions die, wasn't in much better a position. Hence it was Bail who'd taken the lead in organizing things, backed up by his more astute allies. It was not the result he'd expected or particularly wanted. But if he didn't step into the breach there was no end of less scrupulous candidates who'd be happy to fill it. So now he was chairing the provisional committee and wielding his own personal influence to win as much cooperation from the systems as possible, while Mon preached reconciliation and Thrawn cleaned house.

It went without saying that Thrawn had made the most progress. The Admiralty was already toeing the line religiously. Imperial Fleet operations had come almost to a standstill galaxy-wide and the Chiss admiral had organized at least two operations against a couple of stubborn sector admirals who weren't convinced of the intentions of the new management. In his spare seconds he'd set about some spring cleaning in Galactic City.

"You mentioned that you and General Madine had started disassembling some classified facilities within the Palace?" Bail asked.

Thrawn nodded, his usual indifference somehow looking much colder. "A training facility for the Emperor's personal agents," he said, "and his private detention center."

Mothma paled. Rumors had been whispered for years of a hellish dungeon in the bowels of Imperial Palace, reserved for those who'd incurred Palpatine's special wrath.

"As bad as it's been suggested?" she asked.

"Worse," said Thrawn. "I had to inspect it personally before I could credit the reports. We retrieved one prisoner alive. He won't remain that way for long." He held his glass up to the light and gave it swirl, watching the crystal flickers with lethal intensity. "He'd been an informant of mine," he murmured in a tone that would have set all of Palpatine's interrogators on a least-time course for the Unknown Regions had they heard it.

"What of the agents?" Bail asked.

"We detained perhaps a third of them. Most were off-planet at the time. We've retrieved the mission assignments from the top-tier files and I've already alerted the appropriate outposts. There's just one child trainee we can't account for."

Bail's brow furrowed in wrath. "He was corrupting _children_?"

"Several. This particular one was listed under the program encoded 'Emperor's Hand.' Judging from the training facility I'd say she was due to specialize in assassination and espionage."

"Sickening," Mon murmured.

"Speaking of the Emperor's Hand," Bail spoke into the consequent silence, "I think it's time we discussed what we plan to do about his right one."

"Vader," Mon muttered. Thrawn took a particularly long swallow of water as she sat down across from the two of them, crossing her arms as if bracing for a Kaminoan thunderstorm.

"The public demand for information is growing louder," Bail persisted. "We can't afford to leave the question of his whereabouts unanswered."

"It's been working this long," Mothma sighed bitterly.

"Declaring Vader's fate as unknown was never intended to be more than a stop-gap measure," Thrawn reminded her. "Pushed to the maximum it buys us another three weeks."

"Pushed to the maximum it becomes a dangerous fault point," Bail retorted. While Thrawn might be a military genius, Bail was the one who'd been trained for politics. "As long as the general public believes that Vader could be at large you haven't shut the door on the Empire. He becomes a constant bogeyman at best – a rallying point for diehard Imperial sympathizers at worst."

"I agree," Mon sighed. "It's just such a damned hard decision. If once it gets out that he's an invalid, ninety-five percent of the galaxy will be howling for his head on a gold platter."

"Perhaps it should be given to them," Thrawn said. "Didn't you tell me, Senator, that our deal had to include getting rid of the Sith?"

"It has since occurred to me," Bail returned, "that there may be ways of destroying a Sith without killing him."

"That strikes me as remarkably wistful thinking," Mothma shot back. "Bail, you _know _how he became what he is – you're the one who told _me_." By now, Thrawn too had heard the tragedy of Anakin Skywalker in its full ugly detail. "Justice demands that he face the consequences of his actions."

"Mercy demands that four innocent children not be deprived of their father," Bail answered. "Honor demands that we recognize the contribution he made to our success. Had he not slain the Emperor, we could have blasted all of Capital Fleet to hell and not achieved anything. It's because of him and because of Masters Yoda and Olin that we're sitting here right now rather than engaging in a shootout over Coruscant."

"Can all of that atone for the number of lives he's taken?" Mothma retorted. "He's murdered _infants_, Bail. You know how many children were inside the Jedi Temple the night he led the assault! He has killed thousands of Jedi with his own hands and Force knows how many others. And after all of that you expect us to let him live out his days in peace surrounded by his own children? That's not justice."

"He's not that man anymore." Bail threw back a helpless swallow of wine, welcoming its dry burn. "I don't know how to describe it. It's…it's like a process of redemption. I want to know how it will end, _where _it will end. And for Force's sake, think of those little girls! He's the only parent they have. Put up a single holoclip of them crying for him and you'll have half the galaxy clamoring for a pardon."

Mothma began hotly, "I hope you're not suggesting we make this choice based on sheer sentiment – "

"If _I_ may make a suggestion," Thrawn intervened, swirling his glass again in one hand, "perhaps the fitting course is to surrender him to the judgment of those who were first his victims and whose authority he betrayed. I propose that we hand the matter over to Master Yoda and Jedi Olin."

Mothma started to object, then stopped in real consideration. "I suppose no one could argue with that," she conceded. "If anyone has the right to condemn him – "

"Or spare him," Bail interjected stubbornly, though he dreaded that Yoda was unlikely to do any such thing.

" – it's the Jedi."

* * *

tbc


	63. Regenerated

A/N: Just to let you all know, this is the last full-length chapter. The last post is the Epilogue.

* * *

**CHAPTER 63**

**"Regenerated"**

* * *

"Improved, your meditation has not."

Ferus heaved a sigh and opened his eyes, abandoning his most recent attempt at that Jedi discipline. In the doorway of his recovery room Master Yoda leaned over his stick.

"Not lately, Master," he agreed, grimacing as he stretched his healing leg. Not being able to seat himself properly cross-legged for the exercise didn't help; he'd discovered it threw off his composure. And then there was the constant distraction of a prosthetic hand so new it hadn't fully synchronized with his neural impulses yet. Damned thing was prone to jump and jerk around all over the place without his prior consent. The medics claimed the computing processor would finish calibrating within a few weeks.

"At least _I'm _improving," he continued as Yoda hobbled up beside the bed Dr. Siler had forbidden Ferus to leave on pain of death. "The leg will take several months but the hand will be good as new soon enough. I seem to be healing more quickly than I expected."

"Healing your body is," Yoda agreed. He fixed a piercing gaze more closely on Ferus. "But the more grievous injuries, not in your body are they."

Ferus looked away and after a moment gave a silent nod of assent.

"Hate Vader, you do."

"Should I not?" The quietness of his voice startled him, for his whole spirit burned – whether it was with hate, he wasn't sure, but whatever the ugly emotions were, they were probably at least as taboo. "Master, he killed us – _all _of us – the _children_! He _betrayed _us – and I will be damned if I can begin to understand why. I admit I never liked him much when we were Padawans, and I know he never cared for me, but to think he could be capable of – of turning his back on the Order in such a way…" He trailed off, at a loss to comprehend the depth of the betrayal. _Why?_

"Pain you feel," Yoda spoke again. "Fresh for you it is. Known this of Anakin, Obi-Wan and I have since it took place. Forgive, you must – or a foothold for the Dark Side you will create."

"I don't want to discuss it," Ferus told him brusquely, closing his eyes and slouching back on his pillows. "It's too recent."

"Discuss young Anakin we must." Ferus opened his eyes again, feeling petulant at the wizened old master's stern tone. "Spoken this morning with Bail Organa I have. Decided they have that we must determine Vader's fate."

Ferus blinked as he said, very calmly, "What?"

"The judgment of the fate of Darth Vader," Yoda repeated, "to the Jedi has been given. A grave responsibility is this. Set aside your hatred you must. Of wisdom we shall have need. By our decision, Organa and his allies have agreed to abide. Life and death we have power to dispense."

Ferus drew a shaky hand over his forehead. "I withdraw," he choked. "I can't be an impartial judge."

"Withdraw you may not," Yoda said severely. "No less impartial than any Jedi are you. All voices which can speak, we must hear."

"We?" Ferus's laugh sounded bony and bleak. "What _we _is there?"

"Me, for example," said the voice of Obi-Wan Kenobi a moment before his ghostly form appeared on the other side of the bed. Ferus snapped his mouth shut – how could he have forgotten?

"And also me," a different voice chimed in. A second spirit assumed shape beside Obi-Wan – a tall man, with long hair pulled half back, wearing a mischievous smile. Ferus was sure he'd seen that man before – but not in a very long time. Not since he was a child – a mere youngling, not yet a Padawan even…

"Qui-Gon Jinn," the ghost supplied helpfully.

"But you've been dead for – " Ferus stopped himself short before either spirit could throw the Code at him. Jinn's eye twinkled at him; death clearly had not stripped the Jedi Master of his maverick flair.

"Because as we all know," Obi-Wan returned, crossing his arms serenely, "you have a sterling record of impartiality when it comes to Anakin." Yoda's ears twitched treacherously.

"I ask only for an opportunity to speak on his behalf, and then Obi-Wan and I shall leave the decision to you," Jinn said. "It is not only his past deeds but his present deeds which must be taken into account."

"True, this is," Yoda nodded. A little of Ferus' anger melted back as he flashed back to the throne room – Vader, horribly injured, flinging himself in the path of the Emperor's descending blade to save his son's life. Such self-sacrifice was not the action of a Sith…in fact, of all the actions taken in that battle by all participants, it was the deed most becoming a Jedi. The idea of Vader exhibiting that flash of blinding light revolted Ferus more than any of his crimes could. What right did a treacherous, power-starved Sith Lord have to be _good_? How was the thing even possible?

At that moment Ferus began to understand what Yoda had told him before. _More complex is the situation than you know. __Vader is no mere enemy.  
_

"How long do we have to decide?" he asked.

"Two days, the provisional council has granted us."

"Then I suppose we'd better start," Ferus said grimly. "But don't expect to change my mind, any of you."

* * *

Vader thought once again about asking for the time. But that would only be begging for Siler's professional wrath. Of the opinion that information about time would merely serve to increase his patient's tension, Siler had been refusing this request with growing irritation. The meeting that was about to take place was a mighty concession from the doctor, such as only the direct order of the provisional council could have wrung from him. If Vader tried Siler's patience a millimeter further, the doctor would probably find that he had somehow overlooked a great many uncomfortable tests and examinations.

His personal physician was now seated at a workstation in the corner of the room, scowling at all the guests doing their utmost to disturb his patient. Luke perched on the side of his bed; Siler had let him visit for the first time two days ago. Bail Organa was sharing a portable bench with Leia, who didn't want to look at him but couldn't wholly repress a morbid fascination in his current gruesome appearance. She was seeing it for the first time; she had not expressed any inclination to visit him earlier, which was a cold relief of sorts. The mere sight of her threatened to deluge him with despairing shame. Han Solo, fidgeting at the seal of his hermetic suit, seemed at a loss without any pockets to stuff his hands in. Luke had dragged him in yesterday so Vader could make a suitable apology and express gratitude for Solo's devotion. It would have been an unbearable ordeal if Solo had smirked even once, but he hadn't, so it had only been painfully humiliating.

The cycled hatch opened for the last time to admit the final two attendees – Yoda and Ferus Olin, sporting a new prosthetic hand but still confined to a hoverchair as the damage to his leg would take months to heal. Vader felt an unreasoning childish dread at the sight of them. Olin knew now. It was obvious from his impassive expression. What wasn't obvious was what the two Jedi had decided.

When Bail Organa arrived yesterday morning to inform him that his fate was to be determined by the two Jedi, he'd felt little but resignation. He expected no mercy from them. He wanted none, wanted simply to pay the price and have done with this impossible mortal course – except for that stubborn streak of cowardice willing to accept any humiliation if only he could remain with his children.

He would not regret death – only leaving them alone. There had been so little time. A scared flash burst out from Luke's mind to his and Vader gave him a reassuring squeeze with his one remaining hand.

_You will be well, my son, _he sent to the boy as Master Yoda came to a halt in front of them, leaning solemnly on his walking stick. _The Organas will care for you_.

_It's _you _I'm worried about_, the anxious response came.

_I should not have agreed to let him come_, Vader scolded himself. What could it profit the child to hear the sentence pronounced? But he could not resist the fleeting opportunity to have his son nearby while he still could.

"Anakin Skywalker," Master Yoda began. "Stand accused of many crimes, you do. Betrayed your friends, comrades, and teachers you have. Younglings you have murdered and kidnapped. Fellow Jedi you have slandered, trapped, manipulated, and slain. Risked the safety of others for your own ambitions, you have. Broken your oaths to the Jedi Order, you have. To these accusations, what is your response?"

"I am guilty of these and more," he whispered. Such hard words to say – and such a weight they lifted from him. The confession seemed to drive the darkness away from his core, howling in outrage. It was…elating, almost, however painful. Luke sniffled and pressed closer against him, watching Yoda's every twitch.

"Deserving of death, these crimes are." Yoda's words fell like strokes from the butt of a blaster.

"I know it." A convulsive shock of fear reverberated from Luke. Vader closed his eyes so as not to see the pain on his son's face.

"Condemn you to death," Yoda said after a weighty pause, "we do not."

Han's breath whooshed out of his lungs. Luke's fingers jerked in his. Vader's eyes flashed open.

"Repented of your deeds, you have," Yoda said. "The choice of a true Sith, repentance is not. Mercy we have decided to show."

"Master," he whispered. The tide of relief shamed him. He bent his pride under it. If he had been willing to accept death from their hands, he ought to be no less prepared to accept life.

Odd that the latter stung this much.

"Submit yourself to our teaching once again, you will," Yoda continued severely. "Correction you will accept as your body heals. Renounce warfare, aggression, and the pursuit of power you will. Defend you before the galaxy, we will, if you do these things and continue in them for the years to come. By this decision the provisional council agrees to abide."

He glanced sideways. "Dr. Siler tells me that remain on Coruscant you must, until your operations are complete. However, a stable and safe home for your children we must provide."

"I have agreed to take them to Alderaan with me, Master," Bail Organa spoke up. He cracked a grin at Leia. "I'm sure your mother won't mind _that _much."

"To Alderaan I will go as well," Yoda said more gently, "that safeguarded your children may be against any who would wish to harm them."

"Train Luke," Vader got out. "Master, he wants to learn."

"I want _you_ to teach me," Luke spoke up.

"A student your father must now be," Yoda said firmly. His expression softened. "And a patient as well. Perhaps in the future, if satisfactory is his progress, assist in your training he can."

"If he is to remain on Coruscant," Bail remarked, "and you are to go to Alderaan, how is this re-education process meant to proceed?"

"Accepted that responsibility, Ferus Olin has," Yoda said.

Olin had yet to look up from the floor. A shadowy frown passed over his face at Yoda's announcement, as though he couldn't quite believe the decision he'd made. Abruptly he straightened and risked a glance at his aforetime teenage rival. After a moment's stillness his mouth quirked with sudden mischievous humor, a smirk that made Vader suspect he was soon to start receiving his comeuppance for all the times he'd put down the erstwhile model Padawan. Not to mention his most recent manipulations.

"After all," Yoda elaborated, "heal he must as well. Much there is for you to discuss with each other..."

_This, _Vader thought wearily, _is going to be interesting. _

* * *

A grimy little shadow was making a tedious ascent up a lonely turbolift shaft of Imperial Palace, hand over hand up the access ladder. It was very slow and energy-consuming going – in fact it had taken the poor thing hours to reach her planned re-entry point, more than a hundred levels from where she'd started. A filthier, more exhausted object could not be conceived.

Mara Jade had never been happier.

One whole week! She'd done it! After encountering Luke she'd struck out almost exactly opposite to her first direction and had plunged further into the sublevels surrounding Lord Vader's castle – so close to Imperial Palace, but worlds away. Deep in the urban canyons, where sunlight had suffocated, she'd camped out in nooks and crannies, surviving on ration packs and trapping pseudo rats to round them out. She'd discovered that lightsabers worked well as toasting skewers, and also singed the fur off like nobody's business. She had used a jury-rigged purifier to extract water from the sewer sludge and boiled it in an ancient duraplast lube can to eliminate any remaining contaminants. Lightsabers proved excellent for that as well. Not a single stormtrooper had come anywhere near her.

All in all, Mara Jade had had the time of her life. She was almost sad her week of adventurous independence was over, but on the other hand, she had the praise of her trainers to anticipate when she got back to the training facility.

At level 104, she cut a makeshift door into the side of the shaft and crawled out into the corridor – an underused admin sector where she happened to know there was access to a secret turbolift that ought to zip her right up to the training facility. Blissfully pleased with herself, Mara checked the corridor for any sign of life and, finding none, boarded the turbolift.

She sensed danger on the way up and whipped out her lightsaber. The doors opened to reveal six stormtroopers with their blaster muzzles trained on her.

"Drop your weapon," one of them ordered. He didn't sound like he was in the mood to joke. Mara strained her peripheral vision to check the timer on her chrono. It had been rather more than the prescribed 168 hours since she'd gotten the message. Peering between them she saw that the training center was swarming with people – many of them stormtroopers, many of them in various other haphazard uniforms. None of them were the people who _ought _to be here.

What the hells was going on?

Deciding it was better to hold back and assess the situation before she did something inappropriate, Mara switched off the lightsaber and set it down.

"Step out of the lift! Now!"

She edged out and got her hands cuffed for her trouble. They marched her away from the lift and over to a grim blond-haired man with a no-nonsense beard and moustache, wearing a uniform of blue and tan. Mara's eyes narrowed. She'd memorized the wanted lists and that face hadn't been far from the top.

"Crix Madine!" she snapped.

The defector from the Imperial Army handed his datapad to a subordinate and turned his attention to her. "This is the one that was missing, then."

"Yes, General."

Madine leaned aside over a work console and brought up a holofile. "Let's see. I believe your name is Mara Jade. You were training as a special agent, code name the Emperor's Hand."

"I _am _training as a special agent," she corrected him fiercely.

"No," he said. "You _were_." He held up the file. "Even if this center was still in operation, we've learned that you fled Imperial Palace one week ago after coming under suspicion of treason to the Emperor."

"I don't listen to Rebel lies," Mara spat, relying on her innate contrariness to buttress herself against the terrible confusion. What was Crix Madine, a condemned Rebel traitor, doing in this top-secret Imperial facility? Ordering around stormtroopers, no less? Maybe he'd been a spy this whole time. He _had _been in Special Operations…

"I was on a practical learning assignment," she said, deciding to play it a little safer in case this speculation was close to the mark. "My stealth trainer tasked me to evade capture for a full standard week, one hundred and sixty-eight hours."

"Your stealth trainer?" Madine laid the file back down on the console. "Not named Ars Evactan, by chance?"

"Yes," she said. "And I have to report to him. Now." A long pause stretched between them, both of them glaring stubbornly and refusing to break eye contact.

"All right," Madine said. "Follow me."

Mara blinked as a trooper let her out of the binders. Just like that?

Madine and a trooper escort took her straight to the training center's docking bay, where they boarded a standard Palace aircar. Mara's nerves started to tingle as the aircar headed off on a direct ascending vector for Lord Vader's castle.

Something was extremely wrong.

Disembarking at a docking bay not far from the pinnacle of the structure, they arrived at a high-speed med center. Mara's trepidation surged, but sick curiosity kept her following Madine all the way through the doors of the intensive care wing. He stepped aside and gestured her in through the entrance of a private recovery room.

On the bed inside, surrounded by a forest of life support equipment, lay the mutilated body of her stealth trainer. His ears were both missing, along with a chunk of his nose. Bacta bandages laced with morphine had been laid inside deep gouges all over his bared upper body. She could tell from the folds of the blanket that his left foot was missing. Cruelly, he was alert.

"We found him in a private detention facility where the Emperor sent prisoners who had personally offended him," Madine told her, walking her up right next to the bed. "He told us that he sent information to Admiral Thrawn which enabled him and the Rebel Alliance to conduct a successful coup about a week ago. This is what the Emperor ordered done to him." He stepped back.

"This," her trainer rasped, "is what…he'd have done…to you."

"What do you mean?" Mara whispered. "Perhaps you betrayed him, but I didn't!"

"Didn't matter…to him," he forced out. "Tainted by…association."

"I didn't betray him," Mara breathed, her eyes pricking. "I _didn't…"_

A racking cough shuddered through him and he arched in pain. "Left you…the assignment…to get you…away. Pretty girl…shouldn't die…"

An awful rattle started in his throat and the monitors started wailing. Madine rushed her out into the hall as medics hurried into the room. They stood outside and listened to the bustle and tight voices for a few minutes.

It went quiet very soon. Through the open door Mara saw the attending physician bow his head.

"A coup?" she asked in a dead voice. "Is the Emperor...dead?"

"Yes," said Madine. He found a pair of chairs and sat her down to relate the whole complex story, listening in gruff understanding to her outbursts of fury and grief. "I loved the Emperor once myself," he said towards the end. "And just like you I found out the hard way that he wasn't what he seemed."

Mara couldn't summon much gratitude for such cold comfort. Drained, she sat in silence, feeling very dirty and very alone. Where would she go now? What would happen to her? How could the universe even still be going without the Emperor in it?

"Mara!" somebody shouted.

She and Madine looked up. Her jaw plummeted.

It was Luke – the boy she'd met in the sublevels that first day and showed into the Palace. He'd been standing at the far end of the corridor, talking to a taller dark-haired boy and a gigantic chestnut Wookiee in a hoverchair. He was presently sprinting in her direction.

On his belt swung a lightsaber.

"You're alright!" he cried. "I tried to tell Master Yoda I had to go look for you, but he wouldn't let me. Can you _believe _it?"

"Reckless you are!" the taller boy at the end of the corridor yelled at them in a bizarre froglike accent, sticking his thumbs out of his fists and planting them against the sides of his head in imitation of a pair of wide triangular ears. "A brain is your thick skull there is not! Kill yourself you will! Just like your father you are!"

"Hear you, these old ears do," commented a small greenish-gray alien which had arrived behind him, sending the teenager into the air with a startled yelp. The Wookiee barked with laughter.

Luke turned back to Mara with a sheepish grin. "Master Yoda! This is Mara, the Jedi Padawan I was telling you about!"

"The Jedi _what_?" Mara snapped. "I'm training to be a special agent of the Emperor, just like _you_!" She crossed her arms angrily, then added low and sad the next moment, "I was, anyway."

"Special agent of the Emperor?" Luke stammered. "No, I'm going to be a Jedi someday. I thought you must be too – I mean, you've got a lightsaber and you said you were hiding from the Empire…"

"Well, _you_ said you had friends inside the Palace!" Mara retorted, springing forward with fists bunched. "Since when do Jedi chum it up with Imperials?"

Behind him, the teenage boy and the Wookiee burst out laughing. Mara eyed Madine's blaster and wondered how funny they'd think it was if she put a couple bolts through their feet.

"A lesson to you on the dangers of assumption, let this be," lectured the green troll alien, hobbling up to them.

"Yes, Master Yoda," Luke said glumly.

"Perhaps introduce yourselves properly, you should," Yoda suggested after a moment of awkward silence.

"Uh, okay. Hi. I'm Luke Skywalker and I'm learning how to be a Jedi. And this is Jedi Master Yoda."

"I know who _he _is," Mara bit out. "I'm Mara Jade, and I was supposed to be the Emperor's special agent when I finished my training." She flung all the bitterness she could into her voice and threw it straight at Yoda.

"A father to you he was," Yoda said gently. "Understand your sorrow, I do. Great loyalty you possess, Mara Jade. Devote it to a more worthy cause, I hope you will."

"I don't have a cause," Mara lashed out. "In fact, thanks to you, I don't have _anything_."

"You've got me," Luke insisted. "I promised to help, didn't I?"

By stang, he had. Mara had practically forgotten.

"We're going to Alderaan soon," Luke said. "With the Organas. Can't she come too, Master Yoda?"

Yoda inclined his head. "Teaching one student I am. A burden one more will not be. Continue to hone your skills, you should. Teach you the ways of the Force I can, Mara Jade, if willing to learn you are."

Something ferocious flared in Mara. Learn about the Force? The Emperor hadn't taught her very much, saying she wasn't capable of more than tricks, but she'd loved those scant lessons more than anything. "I'm not good," she said mechanically. "I can't learn much."

"A lie of the Emperor, this is," Yoda said, thumping his stick with something verging on anger. "Strong the Force is with you, sense it I can. Learn, you hunger to learn. Achieve much you can. Desire this, do you?"

She nodded painfully, unable to repress the fierce hope but still certain she'd never amount to much of a Jedi. "Could…could I think about it for a bit?"

"Leave at seventeen hundred hours we will from Docking Bay 94," Yoda told her. "A place for you we will reserve, if choose to come you do."

Luke followed him away with a last encouraging glance over his shoulder.

* * *

"Well, kid," Han said, "you ready to ditch this joint?"

"I guess," Luke answered softly.

They were standing on the platform, carrying their packs and waiting outside the shuttle while Yoda gave Ferus final instructions and Bail Organa stood locked in discussion with the redhaired Rebel leader – Mothma, Luke thought her name was. Senator Organa was going to drop them off on Alderaan himself. Leia, Sara, and Sandra were all making the trip on the consular ship, _Tantive IV_; because the little girls still got upset if someone let Luke out of their sight, he'd have to go on the _Tantive _too. He'd much rather have been on the _Falcon _with Han.

But Han would have a copilot, anyway – one who would even fit in that ridiculously huge chair in the cockpit. The Wookiee whose life he'd saved in the throne room insisted on coming along with them. Once Siler would let him get up, Han had gone to visit the alien warrior in the medbay, bringing Threepio along to translate. Chewbacca – that was his name, but everyone had taken to calling him just Chewie – had still been bedridden at the time, but had been extremely animated about the fact that, according to Wookiee culture, he now owed Han a life debt. Apparently this meant that he was obliged to dog Han's every step from now until one of them died.

Han claimed he was still trying to talk him out of it. But since learning that Chewie was a fantastic copilot, a first-rate mechanic, and played a wicked hand of sabacc, he hadn't been trying quite as hard.

"Han Solo and Luke Skywalker," someone said. They looked up at once. It was Admiral Thrawn.

"Unfortunate that I've had such little opportunity to make the acquaintance of two such remarkable young men," Thrawn said. "I anticipate great things from both of you in years to come. Until that time, may the Force be with you and may Alderaan treat you well."

"Thanks," said Luke.

"Ah," said Han. "It has before." He winked slyly at the Princess, who was sitting on the tarmac playing an impromptu clapping game with the twerplings. Despite her exhaustive reservations about discovering Vader as her father, she'd obviously taken to her little sisters without hesitation. She was also obviously regaining her usual equilibrium with rapid speed; she bestowed an icy glare on him before turning back to the girls.

"By the way, Solo," Thrawn added, clasping his hands behind his back, "I'm told you displayed remarkable courage in the course of recent events. I've checked those reports and must concur."

"Thanks," Han said, too astounded by the praise to make one of his usual smart-aleck retorts. He was far more accustomed to defamation than compliments.

"Young men of your caliber will be needed more than ever in the future," said Thrawn, much as if he was discussing the weather. "When the naval academy at Carida re-opens its doors – I aim for that to happen in no more than two years – a place in its first piloting class will be reserved for you at my behest." He cracked a slight grin. "You won't even have to apply."

Han's jaw dropped for a good minute of flabbergasted silence. "Thanks, sir," he managed at last. "That – that means a whole lot. I'd love to come. It's just – I mean, I kinda got Chewie around now…"

"Make that two places," said Thrawn. He nodded to them both and walked around the girls towards Bail and Mothma.

Han spun to Luke. "Did you _hear _that?"

"Yep," Luke said with a grin.

"You think he really means it?"

"Sounds like."

"Astral," Han breathed in daydreamy delight. Chewie woofed his approval behind them and ruffled Han's hair. "Aw, knock it off, you big furry oaf…"

_Luke_, the Force whispered.

Luke shut his eyes tight and stretched back towards the soft, still-weak voice. _Father?_

_Watch out for your sisters for me, _his father responded from his room in the surgical center. _Especially your twin. She is too much like me for my peace of mind._

_About that, _Luke shot back. _Didn't you tell me I didn't have any other sisters to find out about?_

_My apologies. You will learn to like them. _

_More like avoid them_, Luke retorted. _I mean, she's already promising to do their hair the whole way to Alderaan and make me help! _

_Remind me to tell you about your mother's hairdos sometime, _his father said wryly. Luke sighed.

_That won't be until you can come to Alderaan_. _Dr. Siler said it might be more than a year. That's forever._

His father brushed his mind gently. _It is not forever. The time passes sooner than you think. You will be busy with Master Yoda and you will have Alderaan to explore – _

"So I guess this is the ship out of here?" a girl growled nearby. Luke snapped his eyes open and jumped to find himself staring right into Mara Jade's green glare, currently set to _kill on contact_. She'd gotten more or less cleaned up and had a little bag on one shoulder.

"Yeah, yeah it is," he stammered.

"Hop on, Red," Han said brightly.

Mara's eyes narrowed in disdain. "Call me that again and I'll show you how to string somebody from a gantry using your bare hands and their intestines," she snapped, and marched away up the shuttle ramp.

"I'm – I'm glad you're coming!" Luke called helplessly after her.

_Who are you talking to? _his father demanded.

_Um, _Luke thought. _Just some girl…_

_Those emotions you are broadcasting beg to differ, _his father said. _I will say this once – women are a dangerous proposition, son_. _I got married and brought down two galactic governments as a result._

_It's not like I _like _her or something! _Luke wailed at him.

_Of course you don't_, his father snorted. _Yet_.

_No, seriously – _

"Luke, come on! We've got to get moving!" Bail and Yoda had broken away and were hustling Leia and the little girls up the ramp. Luke waved a quick good-bye at Ferus (he'd finally managed to apologize for knocking him out and getting him captured back at Bast Castle), shuffled out a manly sort of _well-later-then_ with Han, and let Chewie ruffle his hair before dashing towards the ramp. "See you in Aldera, kid," Han called behind him. "And try not to forget how to fix an alluvial dampener between here and there, Lando busted mine."

'So make Lando fix it," Luke threw over his shoulder.

"Ah," Han shrugged, heading away and smirking over one shoulder. "He's staying here. Said something about a new regime creatin' new business opportunities..."

"Tell him I said bye," Luke called through the shrinking gap. The ramp sealed up into the shuttle, cutting off Han's salute and Chewie's howl.

_Goodbye, young one. Be safe._

Luke strapped himself into the seat next to Mara and across from Leia, and blew out a deep breath. _Okay, I will. Get well soon. _

_I will try_, his father sent back heavily. Luke knew he had more than physical problems on his mind.

_Master Yoda says there is no try, _he sent back cheekily. _Better get that one down quick._

_Thank you, Obi-Wan_.

A new, echoing voice entered the fray in passing as the engines roared and propelled them away from Coruscant, out toward the stars. _My pleasure, Anakin. _

_..._


	64. Till We Meet

A/N: Well...it's been more than four years, but here we are at the end of the story. It's sort of like graduation for me - I'm thrilled to have accomplished writing the entire gargantuan thing, and proud of the thousands of hours of hard work that have produced it, but it's a loss to have finished. It's a flawed story and it's probably half again as long as it needed to be, but I'm extremely fond of it for all its faults and it's been a huge encouragement to me as a writer to hear from so many of you who have enjoyed it as well. You, my reviewers particularly, have been a source of joy to me for an epoch of my life and I regret that it's over. Thanks for your patience and your impatience, your comments and suggestions.

A few other thank-you notes are in order. Firstly, a huge shoutout to my fantastic and longsuffering beta **kataja**, who courageously critiqued the last hundred and fifty pages of this story in one sitting. You don't find betas that dedicated everyday. Go and read some of her stuff, she's excellent. :) Secondly, I would like to thank an author whose name I cannot remember for writing a short fic whose title I cannot remember which featured the curious character of Miyr, the administrator of Bast Castle, whom I borrowed and adapted to my own purposes. Thirdly, I'd like to thank Harrison Ford for imbuing Han Solo with such life that every section of plot his character touches instantly writes itself. And lastly, thank you to everyone who favorited, alerted, CCed, or recommended this fic.

To stave the inevitable question off right now: no sequels are planned. After four years of writing, I've said my piece. This is where what I know of the story ends. What happens next, I leave to your imaginations (particularly yours, **whateveritis**). Like others here I harbor ambitions of writing professionally and as much fun as I've had posting fics online it's time to devote the bulk of my effort to fully original projects. Not to say I'm through with fan fiction; I've got a companion piece in the works for my longshot_ Lord Vader's Limpet_. It's a bit stuck right now but it'll show up here eventually (I like it too much to keep it to myself). And provided I find enough time and inspiration, my next full-length fic would be a sequel to _Far More Than Rubies_. There's teasers for both on my profile if you're interested.

And that's a wrap, folks...

* * *

**EPILOGUE**

**"Till We Meet"  
**

* * *

_Alderaan, one year later…_

* * *

No. Not the dream again. Not this again.

Mustafar sprang up before his mind's eye, bathed in the hellish glow and spit of its lava banks. Into focus leapt the silvery ship, perched on the pad like a trembling songbird in a cage patrolled by a nexu. And soon, any moment now – no, love, no, for Force's sake stay _away _–

She didn't hear him, couldn't, she was only memory – but as she ran down the ramp towards him, she seemed so much more. There was no way not to run to her.

"I saw your ship," he heard himself call to her.

_No! You selfish fool! Leave, leave her while you can – _

"Anakin!" she cried, throwing her arms around him. "I've been so worried about you!"

She leaned back, and he knew what he would see next – her terror, her confusion, her heartache, her lovely mouth open in a constant gasp of anguish, her eyebrows wrenched in the effort to comprehend him –

She leaned back, and she was smiling, playful and sweet, a light sparkle starring her eyes. "Obi-Wan has been telling me _terrible_ things," she said, wrapping her arms around his waist and leaning her chin on his chest to look up at him. "Apparently you've been having nightmares about me again."

What? That line wasn't in the script anywhere. He should know, he'd performed it scene by scene a thousand times in his nightmares.

"Padmé?" he asked quizzically. "What – but this is only a dream…"

"Is it?" she asked him.

He stared at her. She stared back, smiling wide and mysterious.

He planted a famished kiss on her and wrapped her against his chest. "_Padmé…"_

"I missed you too, Ani." It seemed whole generations could have flown down countless millennia while they stood in silence. She leaned back again and suddenly it had only been a second. "You look much better."

He glanced at himself, then at his reflection in the silvery hull of the ship. The ravaging of Mustafar lingered in his face. A skeletal fuzz of hair covered his scalp, the best Siler had been able to do for his cosmetic situation. The surgery scars around his throat and chest hadn't faded; they might never. He flexed his new prosthetic fist, covered with latest-generation synthflesh that responded much like his own skin. His atrophied natural bicep complained as usual.

It was his own appearance.

He felt ashamed of standing in front of her like this. Once he'd been strong, and even striking too. Those days were gone. He couldn't even finish one series of lightsaber warmups without collapsing and requiring emergency oxygen -

"You do know I didn't marry you for your massive muscles or your stunning hair, don't you?" Padmé said wryly from below.

"I had hoped, at least," he muttered.

"I like the hair, actually. You look all grown-up." She ran her hand over the fuzz. "Like you've got four children or something."

There was something else to be ashamed of. When he'd decided to have Sara and Sandra artificially conceived using his dead wife's genetic material, he'd never imagined having to give their mother the news that she'd become a parent for the second time post-mortem.

"They're ours," she said. "They're beautiful. I've been watching, this whole time. Did you think I hadn't?"

"Then you know about the portrait in the new Conclave Hall of the Galactic Parliament," he commented, trying for a lighter subject.

Padmé groaned, rubbing the side of her head. "I'm going to have serious, serious words with Bail someday. I don't care if he _is _the chancellor – "

"Galactic President, actually," he corrected.

"Whatever he is, it doesn't give him the right to hang a monstrous portrait of me in the fracking legislative assembly!"

He laughed for the first time in a decade and a half. She never resorted to that kind of language – only when furious or furiously embarrassed. "He said something about using you as a symbol of unity. Founder of the Alliance, wife of Lord Vader. I said he could."

"You _said_ – " She cut herself off with a noise of frustration.

"This way I can look at you during every assembly," he added. "Organa was astonished to find me so knowledgeable concerning the Parliament Continual Broadcast Channel."

"Little does he know," she grinned.

"In fact he does know. I suspect the entire galaxy knows. Apparently the Emperor's press conference with Solo inspired a great deal of media curiosity." He quirked a smile. "So much for keeping it a secret."

"All things hidden shall be brought into light," she said quietly. Her hand cupped his battered cheek. "Especially you, Anakin Skywalker."

He grimaced, looking away from her bright eyes. "I am nowhere near the light."

"You're just feeling morose. It's a long way to Alderaan from Coruscant, especially for a beat-up old man like you." She flicked his chest teasingly. "But you'll settle down here soon enough. Weren't the children happy to see you?"

"Once they realized who I was," he muttered. "And except for Leia. I doubt she will ever be happy to see me."

"Give her time. She's already taken so well to Luke and the little girls. She'll heal."

He stared down at the platform, still swirling with bleak, confused mists from the ship's landing gears. "I do not believe that I will."

"No? You've come a long way from this angle."

"Not the body," he said dismissively. "You know what things I have done. And now what am I? Just…another old man. A failed Sith that Yoda insists on trying to turn back into a Jedi. It is not possible. There's too much blood… Padmé, what I would not give just to come to you!"

She took his big hands in her tiny ones and looked up sternly at him. "You listen to me, Anakin Skywalker. You have screwed up. So have we all. Don't screw up again by quitting now. You have four children to raise on your own, which is more than enough to keep you busy for the next couple of decades. And after that you'll have boyfriends and girlfriends to worry about, and before you know it grandchildren. You have good years ahead."

"It will be too hard – "

She pressed a finger to his lips. "It will be an adventure."

He worked up a faint smile. "A Jedi craves not adventure. Ferus Olin, lecture number 233."

"You just got through telling me you're not a proper Jedi."

"My doctor says excitement is bad for my respiratory system."

"And you've listened to doctors since when?"

"Point."

She squeezed his hands and smiled. "It's a promise then." With a last kiss, she let go and started back towards her ship, bathed like a phoenix in the ethereal red glow of the world. A blaze of despair tore through him but he couldn't run after her. The vision was dissipating. She was going - what angel could remain in purgatory? - and though he might have crawled from hell, how could such as he dare hope to join her in heaven? _No, love, stay with me, stay - _

"This was only a dream!" he cried aloud.

She turned over her shoulder. "It's not only nightmares that come true, Anakin."

"Then I'll see you again!"

"When it's time… be strong, love..."

But he was weak, too weak - no better than a cripple - how could he ever be strong for her again -

_Be strong of heart, my love - be strong of heart - be strong - __be strong - be strong - be strong - __  
_

He woke, drenched in sweat, heart pounding as if he'd sprinted a mile. Through the window glowed the stars and the jagged silhouette of the mountains surrounding Aldera. He looked across the room to the cot against the wall. Luke and the twins had insisted on sleeping in his room tonight, not wanting to leave him alone for a minute. A smile ghosted over his face. Gingerly he pulled himself out of the bed and crossed over to them, running his hand over each small forehead in turn and thinking of Leia - sound asleep elsewhere, but nearby. He took a deep breath, reveling in the sensation of oxygen rushing through natural lungs, taking in the feel of young skin under his fingertips and a cool night breeze against his scarred cheek. The deep uncertain agony of his soul, still writhing in its prolonged crucible, stilled in a powerful throb of something too strong to tolerate any other emotion.

However much he scoffed at the thought that someone so guilty could even be human, let alone a Jedi – however much the galaxy scoffed at it – the dream was proof that Anakin Skywalker had a heart.

* * *

FINIS


End file.
